


Parachute

by braille_upon_my_skin



Category: High School Musical (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-06-10 07:01:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 63,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6944524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braille_upon_my_skin/pseuds/braille_upon_my_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Gabriella Montez's departure from East High, Troy Bolton finds himself falling helplessly into a state of confusion and despair. With his uncertain future looming just around the corner, Troy clings desperately to Gabriella, in spite of every sign that their relationship is failing. However, he just might find a parachute in an unlikely source: Ryan Evans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story does deal with depictions, discussion of, and the repercussions of emotional abuse, and a depiction and discussion of an eating disorder. If that would make a potential reader uncomfortable, I'd advise them to tread with caution, or steer clear of this story altogether.

 

1.

 

  _I don't need a parachute_

_Baby if I've got you_

_Baby, if I've got you,_

_I don't need a parachute_

 

_You're gonna catch me_

_You're gonna catch me if I fall_

_Down, down, down_

 

\- "Parachute", by Ingrid Michaelson

 

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 

 "Alright, everyone! From the top!"

 A shockwave jolts Troy Bolton. He's messed up the choreography. _Again_. Around him, he hears discontented mutters as everyone takes up their places from the start of the song. Glares score the side of his face and bore into the back of his head. The majority of the senior class didn't even want to get involved with the school musical, in the first place. Having to repeat the same number over and over because "The Basketball Guy", seems to have no idea what he's doing, these days, has to be endlessly frustrating for them.

 "I'm sorry, guys," Troy says. It's all that he _can_ say.

 Martha Cox, the curly-haired brunette braniac-turned-former-head-cheerleader with a fondness for busting a move to hip-hop, rolls her eyes. She probably had the choreography for the entire show down _weeks_ ago.

 Sharpay Evans, the self-proclaimed theater queen of East High, pinches the bridge of her nose and shakes her head. It's her last show at the school and Troy is ruining it.

 "I'm sorry," Troy says again. His voice sounds small and weak to his own ears, and he lowers his eyes to his feet, his heart heavy with shame.

 "It's all right", a light voice assures him. A gentle hand touches his shoulder.

 Troy raises his head to meet Ryan Evans's understanding blue eyes.

 "Come on." Ryan nods toward a more private area of the auditorium, the back row, which is far away from inquisitive eyes and ears.

 Troy allows Ryan to lead him there. As they make their way down the aisle, his gait feels slow and plodding, his feet like blocks of lead. He wonders how the blond boy can muster up the will to be so understanding. As a matter of fact, Ryan is exceptionally _lenient_ , given that he is the show's choreographer, and it's _his_ choreography that Troy is repeatedly screwing up with opening night only a few weeks away.

 "East High Golden Boy", indeed.

 He and Ryan sit down beside each other. Troy drags his hands down his face, then runs his hand through his hair. A sizable part of him wants to set down roots right here in this seat, and simply give into the substantial melancholy that permeates what feels like every organ in his body. But, another, even larger part of him refuses to allow him to do that.

 "Kelsi, start up the music from act two," Ms. Darbus instructs. As the tiny brunette girl obeys and quickly flips through her sheet music to the specified song, the bespectacled drama teacher sweeps across the stage, calling out, "Mr. Cross! What have I told you about the dangers of chewing gum in the theatre?"

 "Troy."

 Troy turns back to Ryan. His mind is a disorganized mess, anymore, but the petite blond with curvy hips, whom Troy can only describe as "hot", or "pretty", is easy for him to concentrate on.

 "You've _got_ the choreography." Ryan's eyes glow softly, and he gives Troy a bright, encouraging smile. "You know what you're doing, alright?"

 A slight smile tugs at the corners of Troy's mouth. If Ryan says so, it has to be true. The weight on his chest lessens a little. "Yeah," he replies.

 "I know that everyone is tensed up and stressed out," Ryan continues, "and my sister isn't exactly the most cooperative partner, but don't let that get to you, okay?

 Troy nods, biting the inside of his mouth. He can't help that every time he dances or sings with Sharpay, he longs for fruit-scented waves of dark hair to replace the female Evans twin's signature vanilla-scented golden blonde, and olive skin, instead of lightly tanned arms and hands yanking him around, and a glittery pink mouth in a lightly tanned face spouting uncomfortably flirtatious phrases, one moment, and then snapping at him, the next. He misses the feeling of Gabriella's slight body in his arms. Her emotions are also volatile, at times, yes, and Troy often feels like he is struggling against a powerful, impossible current with how hard he has to work to please her and keep their relationship intact, but at least standing near her doesn't cause fear to clench his chest in a viselike grip, like it does around Sharpay.

 But, Gabriella is at Stanford, pursuing an opportunity that Troy never could have denied her. And, Sharpay is her understudy for the musical. Sharpay _isn't_ Gabriella, but she's talented enough to have already learned the choreography and the music for Gabriella's part.

  _Troy_ is the problem. Everyone knows it.

 Onstage, Troy's best friend, Chad Danforth, and the rest of the retiring seniors from the basketball team execute their basketball-themed routine flawlessly.

 Without their captain.

 Troy swallows, his stomach twisting. "I don't know if I can do it, Ryan. I'm messing everything up. Everyone's pissed off…" He shakes his head. "Maybe you should just let Jimmie take my role over full-time, and make me the understudy, instead."

 "Hey." Ryan's tone is firm and unwavering, but still far too gentle.

 Troy wishes he could understand _why_. He looks into Ryan's sky-colored eyes.

 " _You are_ Troy Bolton. There isn't a single person in the world that I would trust to play that part faithfully, but _you_." Ryan leans in a bit, his eyes reflecting the sincerity that fills his voice. "I'm sure that Ms. D and Kelsi would agree with me on that."

 Troy feels his heart miss a beat. Up close, he can see the faint sheen in Ryan's lipstick, the adorable overbite that makes Ryan's smile so infectious, and that the blond boy's fair complexion is unblemished. Like porcelain. He feels that urge, the urge that has been there since he and Ryan became friends over summer vacation, to press his mouth against Ryan's.

 "We're going to keep working at this, Troy, but just remember that you're _you_. And, you can do this." The conviction in Ryan's words is as encouraging and infectious as his smile.

 It strengthens Troy's resolve. "Yeah," he agrees. He isn't going to let Ryan, or Kelsi, down. No matter how much not having Gabriella around makes him feel empty inside. 

 "You're our star." Ryan nudges Troy softly, affectionately. "The show can't go on without you." He says it as though it's something that he wishes were true, when they both know otherwise. The show _will_ go on with or without Troy Bolton, come hell or high water, because that's how it works in the realm of show business.

 But, Ryan doesn't seem to want it to.

 "It _won't_ ," Troy promises.

 A smile breaks out on Ryan's face. His eyes shine, and Troy is unable to stop himself from smiling back. "So… are you ready to get back onstage?"

 "Yes, I am." Troy feels confidence, and maybe something else, warming his insides.

 Ryan gets out of his seat and offers Troy a hand. Troy takes it without hesitation.

 "Whatever moves you're struggling with, we'll work on after school," Ryan offers. He gives Troy's hand a light squeeze once the brunette former athlete is standing upright.

 "Thank you, Ry," Troy says softly. He sidles in close to Ryan, blush creeping into his cheeks as he tightens his own grip on Ryan's slender hand.

 "For what?" Ryan blinks, faint surprise in his eyes.

  _For being so understanding. For being wonderful. For not getting mad at me._ All of these options enter Troy's head. He winds up going with, "For being you."

 It appears to be the right choice. Ryan ducks his head shyly and bites back a grin. Their hands remain enveloped in each other for a few seconds longer as they make their way toward the stage.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 Troy manages to perform the choreography in his and "Gabriella's" big duet almost flawlessly. He just reminds himself to be, well, _himself_. He catches Ryan's eye and the blond grins back at him. The trill of joy that courses through Troy is enough to get him through Sharpay's more forceful and over-the-top style of dancing.

 Before he knows it, the bell has rung, signaling the end of free period.

 While Troy moves out into the house of the auditorium to collect his belongings, Ryan catches up with him. "Great job," the smaller boy says warmly.

 Troy smiles.

 "I saw an unmistakable improvement with the choreography in this-"

 "Troy, Ryan, Kelsi," Ms. Darbus interjects, cutting Ryan off.

 Exchanging a confused glance, Troy and Ryan make their way over to the drama instructor, joining Kelsi. The light in the composer's blue-green eyes is every bit as puzzled as both boys are.

 Ms. Darbus lets out a hefty sigh. She removes her glasses, and her eyes meet Troy's directly. "I realize that the loss of Ms. Montez has proved an obstacle for all of us, but, you, Mr. Bolton…"

 Troy swallows and straightens his spine.

 "You have a passion for being onstage," Ms. Darbus continues solemnly. "Yet, until Mr. Evans took you aside to give you a pep talk," her gaze shifts to Ryan, who looks briefly to Troy before lowering his eyes to the floor, "I saw no traces of that passion, today." 

 Guilt eating at his stomach, Troy slips his hands into his pockets. "I know, Ms. D. I'm sorry. I'm trying-"

 She dismisses the apology with a shake of her head. "There is no need to apologize," she says, her voice holding a level of sympathy and understanding that Troy never would have expected from her. "Just keep working at it."

 Troy nods. "I will," he responds firmly.

 Ms. Darbus's stare encompasses all three of her students. She waits several moments, possibly pausing for dramatic effect, before declaring, "For the next six days, the auditorium will be available to the three of you in the evenings following after school rehearsals. Ryan, you will assist Troy with any moves that he struggles with. Kelsi, you will be on-hand if they need you."

 "Yes, ma'am," Troy, Ryan, and Kelsi reply in unison.

 "Ryan, I have notes for you to look over in regards to any alterations that need to be made to accommodate the casting change."

 "Okay," Ryan says softly. He reaches out for the sheet of paper that the Drama teacher hands him.

 Sliding her spectacles up the bridge of her nose, Ms. Darbus gathers up her playbook and clipboard and addresses Troy. "Tap into that reserve of passion and courage. You have a natural gift for performing. Don't let it go to waste."

 A nerve has been struck within Troy. He can only manage a faint nod as Ms. Darbus departs.

 "You okay there, Hoopsman?" Kelsi inquires.

 Troy's gaze flicks from her to Ryan, who meets his stare with a concerned and questioning look. "I'm fine," he says, slapping on what he hopes is a convincing smile. "Come on." He wraps an arm around both of them, drawing the tiny composer and petite and curvy choreographer into him. "Let's go get lunch."

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 He just finishes jotting down answers to his homework assignment on the Cold War when his cellphone goes off. Troy recognizes the number on the caller id, and his heart leaps excitedly. "How was school?" He asks as he flips the phone open.

 "Long. Pretty boring," Gabriella's soft, girlish voice replies with a giggle. "What I expected college to be."

 "So um, hey," Troy starts when silence begins to settle in. He rubs at his neck, his heart rate picking up. He realizes that he's changing the subject, but he missed being able to talk to her about his day, about his future, about _everything_. "Rehearsals for the musical, today…"

 "I really wish I could be there." Gabriella sighs wistfully. "There's a girl in my Pre-Law class who reminds me _so much_ of Taylor. And, the food at Stanford isn't as good as the food served in the cafeteria at East High."

 "Yeah, that so?" Troy asks quietly. He laughs, hoping that she can't tell from over the phone that his heart has just sunk down into the pit of his stomach for a reason that he can't quite fathom.

 "This one boy who sits next to me in the lecture hall- he's _so_ sweet." A playful giddiness creeps into Gabriella's voice. "He tells me little jokes to keep me from dozing off when the professor just goes on, and on, and on."

 "That's really great, Gabriella." Troy is happy for her. He is. Gabriella is so intelligent, and bound to do amazing things. He's being selfish, getting upset because she has more important things going on in her life than him. He should be more supportive.

 Besides, she might be one thousand fifty-three miles away physically, but her voice is right there, reverberating in his eardrums. At the moment, it's the closest that Troy can get to being with her, and he allows that to bring him some degree of comfort. Taking a breath, he pushes his feelings aside. "So, uh, what's your favorite class, so far?" He asks. This time, he's fully prepared to be the attentive, wholly supportive boyfriend that Gabriella needs.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 

_Lips brush softly against his neck. "Wildcat", Gabriella's voice whispers softly, sensually. It's her nickname for him. It reminds him of the pedestal that he's been unwillingly placed on by his peers, but he doesn't question it. He never has. She only uses the nickname when she's being affectionate with him, after all._

  _Gabriella turns around, her long, dark waves of hair coming to rest on her bare, olive-tinted shoulder blades. Troy wraps his arms around her, holding her close, his chest pressed to her back._

  _Giggling, she escapes his embrace. She spins to face him and arches up on her toes, the ends of her white sundress sliding up, revealing her thighs. Before Troy knows it, her fingers have curled around tendrils of his hair, and she pulls him in. Her lips are on his. The kiss lasts for a few, brief moments._

  _Troy's heart races._

  _When Gabriella pulls away, he can taste the nearly forgotten flavor of her lipgloss on his lips. Troy moves forward, hoping to hold her again, but the landscape changes._

  _He finds his body pressed against pale, creamy skin. A particularly round, shapely butt grinds into his groin. Bliss and arousal jolt through Troy's body, stimulating every nerve. His heart hammers in his ears. "F-Fuck…!" He gasps._

  _That breathtakingly_ talented _set of hips continues to grind against him, even as the figure in his arms whirls around, bringing him face to face with sky-colored eyes, pink lips, and a fair face that he isn't at all surprised to recognize as Ryan's._

  _"Teach me how to dance, Ryan," Troy grunts, his chest heaving as heat pools in his stomach._

  _Ryan bites his lip, and that urge to crush his mouth against Ryan's pretty pink one is almost overpowering. "You already know how. You're a natural, Troy," Ryan whispers, his words tantalizing. He leans in and his lips graze Troy's earlobe._

  _Need pierces Troy's chest and shoots directly into the area below his waistband. He groans, clinging to Ryan. Just like that, his hips jut forward, falling into perfect synch with the motion of Ryan's pelvis._

  _A high, joyous cry is ripped from Ryan's musical throat._

  _Troy thrusts again, spinning himself and Ryan into a wall of some kind. Once there, they pause for a moment, and stare into each other's eyes._

  _The desire and affection shining in Ryan's eyes is so intense, a lump forms in Troy's throat. He can't hold back, anymore. He moves in and places his mouth on the blond's, his heart swelling in his chest. Cool, slender hands rest on both sides of his face, and his heart feels like it's overflowing with emotion._

  _Suddenly, the shrill, ear-piercing chirp of his father's whistle crashes into Troy's eardrums. A basketball comes flying at him and Ryan from out of nowhere._

  _Troy pushes Ryan to the side, getting him out of the line of fire. Right as he prepares to duck, himself, however, his legs lock into place. The orange and black striped ball hurtles toward him. Troy can only close his eyes and brace for impact…_

 He forces his eyes open. He lies there, slowly reorienting himself with the state of consciousness and the placement of his limbs.

 There aren't any basketballs headed for his face, propelled with enough force to leave a nasty welt.

 There also isn't a warm body in the bed beside him. He feels a pang in his heart as the latter observation descends on his mind.

 In the dark, he can just make out the picture of Gabriella in her powdered blue sweater sitting framed on his nightstand. _Gabriella_ , his _girlfriend_.

 Who is still one thousand miles away.

 Slowly, Troy comes to the realization that his hand is surrounded by warmth and pressed against heated skin. The fabric of his boxers is slightly damp.

"Shit…" He whispers, extracting his appendage. He pushes himself into an upright position. His digital clock flashes '3:53 am', and he reminds himself that he'll have to be quick and quiet when he changes clothes.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 "Troy! _My man_!"

 Troy jumps as a hand slaps the area of his upper back right between his shoulder blades. His reaction causes his elbow to slam into his locker, which he was leaning against. Wincing at the sting enveloping his funny bone, he rubs at his bleary eyes and discerns that, while snug and warm in his jacket, he must have started to doze off. "Hey, Jimmie," he murmurs.

 "So, your old man says I'm doing a great job. He might even consider putting me in the running for _team captain_ , next year." Jimmie Zara, a scrawny, overzealous sophomore member of the basketball team, and Troy's understudy in the musical due to Jimmie's almost troublingly passionate case of hero worship for the older brunet athlete, bobs his head, wearing a proud smirk, as he speaks.

 What he's saying only faintly registers with Troy. Not wanting to be rude, though, Troy comments, "That's wonderful."

 "Yeah, I know." Jimmie breaks into a grin. "Anyway, what's up with you?"

 "Hm?" Troy asks, shaking off the remaining bits of his disorientation.

 "You were like, fallin' asleep, bro."

 His stomach twisting with embarrassment that "Rocketman", of all people, caught him nodding off, Troy replies, "Nothing's up." Summoning up some amount of poise, he leans into Jimmie and says conspiratorially, "You know, my dad is _really_ impressed by dedication." He pauses to glance at his bare wrist. He's never worn a watch, but, hopefully, that won't distract the younger boy from his words. "There's still time before homeroom. Why don't you go shoot some free-throws in the gym?"

 His brown eyes lighting up excitedly, Jimmie heeds the advice. "Great idea, Troy! That's why your teammates voted you captain!" He lands another resounding smack in the exact same spot as earlier.

 Just holding back a grunt of pain, Troy grits his teeth and plasters on a forced smile of acknowledgement.

 Jimmie begins dashing off toward the gymnasium. Along the way, he passes a familiar slender blond with curvy hips and a hat perched on his head.

 Troy's heart skips a beat at the sight of the immediately recognizable Ryan Evans.

 The hyperactive sophomore, however, dashes right past Ryan without a second glance.

 Looking faintly bemused at Jimmie's behavior, Ryan approaches Troy. His neatly groomed brows knit, and his eyes cloud with sympathy as he takes the older brunet in. "Are you okay?"

 "Yeah." Troy nods. He doesn't have to force a smile for Ryan. "I just got a warm reception from Jimmie and his… _enthusiasm_ ," he jokes lightly.

 Ryan chuckles. Together, he and Troy watch Jimmie until his baggy hooded sweat-jacket has disappeared around the corner. "He certainly is bursting with _enthusiasm_. But, he doesn't have the maturity to temper it, yet."

 "Hm?" Troy blinks, slightly puzzled.

 "Like you." Ryan nudges Troy playfully, and, Troy notices, very gently, as if he's making sure that he doesn't hurt him.

 The considerate gesture and the impact of Ryan's words soften Troy's heart. He lets out a quiet laugh and murmurs, "Thanks". A smile tugs at Ryan's lips and lights up his eyes. It makes Troy feel safe confiding in him, "I didn't really sleep well, last night."

 "Due to nightmares, or insomnia, or….?" Ryan asks, his smile vanishing instantly as concern knits his brows.

 "A combination, I think."

 "I'm sorry." Shifting his weight, Ryan bites the inside of his mouth. "I wish there was somewhere in the school you could go to take a nap before class."

 "It's all right," Troy assures him. "I've gotta keep myself up, anyway."

 "Well, in that case… here." Troy blinks curiously as Ryan hands him a nice, cold bottled water. "Something to recharge your electrolytes," Ryan explains, shuffling his feet and ducking his head.

 Troy grins. "Thanks, Ry." He opens the lid and takes a long sip, letting the cool water rush down his throat, and, hopefully, wash away all traces of exhaustion.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 Gabriella called him three times while he was in AP Calculus. Troy only realizes this when he checks his phone after class and sees three missed calls and a voice mail on the screen.

 Heart hammering and his hands shaking, Troy ducks into the men's restroom and prepares himself to listen to the voice mail. He knows that Gabriella is going to be upset with him. Test or no test, he should have excused himself to take her call. He _should_ have answered. Troy inhales and fights off a sudden surge of nausea as he hears his girlfriend's soft, girlish voice taking on that patronizing sneer that he's become much more acquainted with than he ever wanted to.

 "You're not going to pick up the phone, Troy? Oh, I see. Apparently, whatever you have going on is obviously more important than _me_. I get it. That's cool. Whatever. Maybe, my new friend, _Shawn_ , has time to listen to me."

 Troy's heart drops into the pit of his stomach. "Damn it…!" He whispers. It's a struggle to gulp down the lump in his throat, and keep the hot tears of failure from stinging his eyes. No matter what he does, he can't seem to make Gabriella happy. He's a terrible boyfriend, a horrible person. He…! Frantically, Troy forces his trembling hands to dial her number into the keypad. "Pick up," he pleads as the call connects. " _Please_ , pick up."

 "Hello?" Gabriella murmurs into the speaker right before the fourth ring cuts off. Disinterest and irritation fill her voice.

 "Gabriella…!" Troy's brain scrambles for words that he can use to appeal to her. To apologize. " I'm sorry I didn't answer your call. I-I was taking a Calculus test, and you know how the teachers here are about cell pho-"

 "Troy, is this not going to work?"

 "What? No!" Troy insists, begs. "This _works_. It's working out just fine! I just-"

 "I need you to be there whenever I have to talk to you, and you weren't." Gabriella sounds like she's on the verge of tears, and Troy wants to punch himself, like he always does when he makes her cry. "I _can't_ have my heart one thousand miles away at East High, while I'm at Stanford, Troy."

 "I know," Troy says quietly.

 "If this- if _we_ are going to work, you have to be there when I need you."

 "I know." Troy's voice cracks a little. It feels like a two ton weight has just plummeted from the sky and landed full force on his chest. "I'll be there," he assures her. "I'll answer your calls. I promise."

 Gabriella lets out a long sigh and pauses.

 As he waits for her to respond, Troy can hear other people chatting and their footfalls squeaking and clicking in the hallway as they pass by on their way to their next classes. He hopes that no one decides to stop in to do their business and catches East High's Primo Boy on the verge of an emotional meltdown, because he's a big fat screw-up who can't stop his perfect relationship from falling apart right in front of him.

 "You better," Gabriella finally says. "I have to go to my next class. I'll call you later."

 "Okay," Troy replies. There's a smile on his face, but the odd, heavy feeling in his chest doesn't seem to match it. "Gabriella, thank you so much for giving me another-"

 The call is disconnected. She hung up.

  _Chance_ , Troy finishes mentally. He lingers in the bathroom for a minute, entirely unsure of what his emotions are doing. His stomach is churning like he might throw up. His heart is palpitating with a mixture of something that feels like relief, and, strangely enough, _anxiety_. Unrest. It takes a bit for him to steady himself.

 By the time he does, he's late for his AP English class. Luckily enough, the teacher appears to be running late, too, so Troy is spared from receiving a scolding or a detention.

 Ryan, who sits beside him in that class, immediately discerns that something is wrong. "What happened?" He asks as Troy drops into his seat. His voice is soft, gentle, and worried. It's such a sharp contrast to Gabriella's intonation that Troy's heart aches.

 "I had a… um, phone call," Troy replies. He feels sick.

 "Gabriella." It's more of a statement than a question.

 "Yeah. She wasn't exactly in a good mood."

 "Things… Things are rough between the two of you, huh?"

 Troy can't lie to Ryan. Especially not when the performer has placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and can read him like an open book, anyway. He nods faintly. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong, Ryan. I just can't seem to make her happy."

 Ryan is quiet. He opens his mouth briefly, as if searching for the right words, the words to cheer Troy up, or make him forget about Gabriella and his apparent inability to be the boyfriend that she wants, for the next forty-five minutes. No words come, though.

 It occurs to Troy that if Ryan can't be optimistic about his and Gabriella's future together, then, maybe this _won't_ work.

 Ryan's eyes suddenly fall tentatively to Troy's lips.

 A flash from Troy's dream fills his mind. He recalls the sensation of his lips on Ryan's, the softness, the taste, the way it felt to have Ryan in his arms. Troy's heart rate picks up, and he lowers his eyes to Ryan's lips, too. They're a tantalizing dark pink. Not glittery like Gabriella's, and they probably don't taste like her lip gloss. But, that's a good thing. Ryan _isn't_ Gabriella, after all.

 Troy's heart urges him to, _Do it_. A voice in the back of his head, however, reminds him that he's _Gabriella's boyfriend_. Being with her sometimes feels like navigating a minefield. She laughs at things that aren't funny, makes Troy pay for and set up all of their dates, criticizes him when he fails to make anything but perfect grades, even if she kept him up too late to do his homework, looks at him with disapproval far more often than warmth, and now, for the third time in their year and nearly five month long relationship, she's probably contemplating breaking up with him.

 But, she's still his girlfriend. The girl who knows him better than anyone else, who has seen the _real_ him behind his image as the Wildcat basketball star. Gabriella is the reason that he ventured outside of his clique and discovered that he actually enjoys singing and dancing and being onstage. She was his first kiss. They're the "perfect couple". They're "meant to be". He can't just break up with her. That would be quitting out on his first relationship. Troy Bolton, East High's superstar, doesn't quit. He doesn't screw up. He has to win. He has to always be _the best_ at everything he does.

  _Besides_ , Troy reminds himself, _I don't_ deserve _Ryan. He's too good. Too nice. Too certain of who he is, what he wants, and where he's going. I don't know any of that. I'm a_ mess _. A fucking walking train-wreck…. And, I'd wind up being nothing but a disappointment to him, too._ His chest constricts and a painful ache seizes it. This time, he's not sure that he's going to be able to fight the tears back.

 "Troy?" The English teacher, Mrs. Cardellini, calls, having finally arrived. "Are you all right? Do you need to go see the nurse?"

  _Yes, Mrs. Cardellini, I'm fine. No, Mrs. Cardellini… I'm really not. I'm not okay._ Both answers cross Troy's mind, but he doesn't speak. He _can't_. Even when Ryan leaves his chair and draws him into an embrace. Even when he buries his face in Ryan's dress shirt and clings to him like his life depends on it. Even when Ryan inevitably has to let go, so the lesson can begin, and Troy feels like something vital is being ripped away from him.

 Twenty minutes into the class period, however, Troy and Ryan are reading _The_ _Catcher In The Rye_ , and pointing out lines that act as subtext to imply that Holden Caulfield is a closeted homosexual, for fun. Troy can't help but break into a smile as Ryan highlights Holden's extensive comments on the "sexiness", of his male roommate, and the scene where Holden hires a prostitute and merely speaks to her, expressing no sexual interest in her whatsoever. "That _does_ sound pretty gay," Troy is finally able to say.

 "That's what I've been thinking for _years_ ," Ryan concurs delightedly. "But," his smile slips a little from his face, the light leaving his eyes. His voice takes on a note of disappointment. "You know how people are. No girl wants a guy that they find attractive to turn out to be batting for the other team."

 A thought registers in Troy's mind. One that makes him smirk cheerfully with what feels like it might be an epiphany. "It's good news for the _guys_ who might be attracted to him, though," he says. He gives Ryan a light, playful nudge. Perhaps, for emphasis.

 Confusion quirks Ryan's brows and the corners of his mouth for just a few seconds before he gets the intended message. He nudges Troy back, unable to conceal the wide grin that dominates his face.

 Joy floods Troy's chest, erasing his doubts, his anxieties. His head finds its way onto Ryan's shoulder. It's warm, and sturdy enough to make him feel safe there. A significant part of him wants things to stay this way forever, wants the future to not come along and change everything. The future is a big, frightening place, and without Ryan at his side, he's not sure if he'll be able to make it.

 So, he focuses on the last thirty minutes of this class, and plans to store every moment of the next couple of weeks before graduation that he spends with Ryan, away, where he can hold onto them forever.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 "Mom! Dad! I'm home!" Troy announces as he plops his book bag onto one of the chairs in the kitchen.

 "In here, Troy," his father, East High's basketball coach and physical education teacher, answers him. Troy follows his dad's voice to his parents' bedroom, where he finds his father standing up, holding a stack of envelopes in his hand. The light in the senior Bolton's gray eyes is harsh, and Troy feels his stomach clench with the desire to duck into his own bedroom and hide. "A college in Phoenix, universities in California, Pittsburgh, New York…" Coach Bolton raises his eyes to look at his son. "We only discussed you going to U of A, Troy. What's all this?"

 "Every kid in high school gets letters from colleges all over the country, dad. Not just me," Troy answers, trying to avoid looking into his father's eyes.

 "Yeah, but you never told me about all these. What's going on?" Coach Bolton lets out a strained sort of laugh. "I mean, are you looking at other schools, or-?!"

 Troy's stomach churns as he asks, "Yeah. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?" He doesn't want to have to deal with this, right now.

 "Come on, bud. We've talked about you going to U of A-"

  _-ever since you were a little kid_ , Troy finishes mentally, in time with his father. "I know," he murmurs.

 "U of A is a _darned_ good school. You can get discovered by important people there, Troy."

 "I know, dad. But, maybe I don't want to limit myself to just one school."

 "Is this because of Gabriella?"

 Her name causes an almost paralyzing ache to pierce Troy's chest. He really does think he's going to be sick. He finds the strength to shoot his father a desperate, incredulous look. _Don't do this, dad._ Please _._

 Luckily, his mother's voice fills the hall, saving both of them from having to continue the conversation. "Boys?! I'm home. Jack, I need help starting dinner!"

 Jack Bolton hesitates.

 Troy's phone goes off a second later. It's Gabriella. Troy feels dazed and light-headed as he fumbles to answer her call, just like he promised. "Hey, Gabriella. How was your day?"

 "Troy, we need to talk."

 It feels more like a dream than reality as Troy makes his way to his bedroom and she tells him that the distance is too much to handle. That she can't be a "little adult", and come down to attend the prom with him, and be present for her graduation, despite that being their plan from the time Troy gave her his blessing to go to Stanford.

 Or, in reality: he gave her his blessing to move on and leave him behind.

 Troy doesn't even have the strength to cry as she decides for both of them, again, that it's _over_. That _they're_ over, and everything between them might as well amount to nothing.

 She hangs up without a "goodbye".

 For some reason, Troy checks the duration of the call. It lasted about thirty-five seconds. Pauses included.

 He has enough time to consider that funny in a really spiteful sense, that a year and nearly five months could come to an end in less than forty seconds,before his mind blanks.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 A soft, familiar hand, touches his forehead.

 Opening his eyes, Troy can just make out waves of dark hair. "Gabriella?" He implores, his voice thin and weak.

 "It's me, honey," his mom replies.

 Troy's heart sinks, but, he's still happy to see her. At the moment, all he wants is for his mother to magically fix everything, the way that moms do.

 "You don't feel feverish," Mrs. Bolton murmurs, both to herself and her son. "Did you not eat well at school?"

 Troy tries to think back to earlier that day, and recollect the items on the lunch menu. "I don't think so," he replies shakily. His vision adjusts, and he becomes aware that he's laying in his bed. He doesn't remember getting there. "What happened?"

 "You got a phone call from Gabriella," his mother informs him. "Not even a minute later, your dad and I heard a loud thud from your room, and came running to see what the noise was. We found you sprawled out on the floor, unconscious."

 It all comes rushing back. The phone call. The break-up… Troy knew it was going to hurt. It was going to emotionally devastate him to lose her again. But… _Shit. I can't believe I passed out._ "I'm sorry," he says softly.

 "Don't apologize. Just take it easy, okay?" His mother brushes his hair out of his eyes and smooths out the quilt that's been draped over him. "We're having tacos for dinner, tonight. I'll let you know when they're done."

 "Okay." That actually sounds really good, even if Troy's not sure that he'll be able to stomach eating anything for a while.

 As his mother exits his bedroom, she flicks off the main light, leaving only the dim golden glow of the lamp on Troy's nightstand, and the traces of sunlight shining through the curtains, to illuminate the room.

 That picture of Gabriella in her powdered blue sweater, the first picture that he ever took of her, smiles at Troy. In the dim light, her once warm, inviting expression appears off-putting and mocking. She's reminding him that he failed. That she's finally cut him out of her life, and is now free to move on to greener pastures. His head swims and his stomach lurches.

 Gabriella Montez; his first kiss, his first relationship, his _ex_ -girlfriend.

 Troy turns the picture away from him and flops back against his mattress where he buries his head under the blankets.

 I _feel like the guy in the Beatles' song, "Yesterday"_ , he thinks as he waits for his stomach to settle and his head to stop throbbing.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 There's a voice in the back of your mind, one that's supposed to tell you when you have a stupid idea, an idea that will wind up mortifying you, or is doomed to go terribly, horrendously wrong. Somewhere down the line, Troy learned how to block this voice out. Just _this_ particular voice, unfortunately, not the other ones that constantly battle one another for dominance and control over the direction that he's meant to take next.

 His ability to block this voice out is probably why he sneaks out of the house, after dinner, climbs into his truck, and, armed only with a Google Maps search result he printed out in the school library, and his fully charged cell phone, he peels off toward California.

 Gabriella doesn't answer when he calls to touch base with her, but that's all right. _I'll just surprise her_ , Troy tells himself, his stomach knotting with enough force to make him queasy. He's not going to lie down and let her slip through his fingers. Maybe, he can convince her that they can make this work. Graduation is only a few weeks away, then he can move out to California, too, to make things easier for her.

 Yeah. Yeah. _That's_ what he'll do.

 Troy resolves this in the first ten minutes. Three _hours_ go by with only the radio to keep him company as he approaches the border between New Mexico and Nevada. The drive is long, lonely, and extensively _long_. Outside the windows, the sky grows dark, and Troy almost wishes that he would have asked Chad, or even Ryan to join him. Some company would be both of great reassurance, and would offer assistance in keeping him alert, as his head still feels fuzzy. But, he shakes the grogginess off. A bruised finger or two didn't prevent him from leading his teammates to victory in their final game of the season, and losing consciousness won't stop him from trying to be good enough for Gabriella.

 The song, "Shattered", by OAR comes on, and when Troy hears the line about "turning the car around", doubt settles heavily in the pit of his stomach and clenches his chest. _Was this a bad idea?_ He questions himself, anxiously chewing at the inside of his mouth. 

 Twenty minutes later, he hears it. The shakiness, the spluttering. There's his answer.

 "No. No no no no no. Come on," he pleads with the truck's engine. "Don't do this. Please…! _Shit_." The headlights, his only source of illumination on this stretch of desert road, aside from the stars in the sky, go out. The purr of the engine ceases. Then, the dashboard lights shut off.

 It's dark. It's cold, because the heater conked out, too. Troy is alone and stranded. He's fucked up. _Again_.

 Troy inhales slowly, steadily. He hears what sounds like the rattling of a snake's tail somewhere nearby, and wishes he was home, safe in his warm bed. "Shit, I'd actually be _grateful_ to get the U of A lecture from my dad, right now," he mutters to himself with a dry laugh. A feeling of lightheadedness swamps his brain. Right now, he would probably be getting ready to turn in for the night, if he was back at the house. And, his parents wouldn't be discovering that he's gone, panicking, and desperately phoning everyone they know to try to figure out where he went. Running his hands through his hair, he smacks his head into the dashboard. "I'm stupid. I'm so fucking _stupid_ …!"

 He'd always heard about guys that were willing to do dumb things for a girl- cut their hair, or spike it up and put frosted blond on the tips, get beaten up by bigger, tougher, _meaner_ guys because it turns out that the girl is actually into abusive assholes who ditch class to smoke weed in the bathroom, wear ridiculous looking clothes in imitation of some douchey fad, utterly humiliate themselves by attempting to serenade the girl with an "original song" played on an acoustic guitar… He never thought that _he_ was one of those guys. Evidently, though, that's one more thing he was wrong about.

 Forcing himself upright, he pulls out his cell phone and scrolls to Gabriella's name. She picks up on the third ring, and the intensity of the burst of hope in Troy's chest _hurts_. "Gabriella…!"

 "Troy, why are you calling me?" Based on her inflection, alone, her mood is indeterminable. All that Troy can ascertain is that she doesn't sound particularly happy.

 "I'm on my way to see you," Troy says. He feels oddly like a child about to be scolded for drawing on the walls, or flushing an expensive piece of jewelry down the toilet.

 Gabriella sighs. "Troy, earlier, that phone call was me saying goodbye. I love you, Wildcat, but I _can't_ do this. I have class in the morning, and a new life here, and…." She pauses and sniffles. "So, stop making this difficult for me."

 Her words are like a knife to the gut. "Gabriella, I…!" Troy tries, hot tears of failure burning his eyes.

 "Don't call me anymore." She says it in a near whisper, but the reverberation of that statement in Troy's skull is deafening.

 Troy's throat constricts painfully. He is unable to say a single thing as her end of the line goes silent, or as the dial tone beeps away in his ears. As he ends the call, he wants to lay back in the driver's seat, give up, and go to sleep. Hell, he wouldn't even mind getting bitten by a rattlesnake, or devoured by a coyote, at this point. But… _My parents, and Chad, the guys, Kels, and_ Ryan _… They'd miss me._ With a tiny bit of renewed strength at that thought, he picks up the phone and makes one more call.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 It's two a.m. when Jack Bolton pulls his sleek minivan into the Boltons' driveway.

 Troy couldn't quite believe it when he stirred, goosebumps prickling the hair on his chilled skin, took in the cockpit of his truck, and squinted out the window, right into the blinding glare of a pair of taillights.

 After vowing to pay his father back for the tow truck expenses, the three hour and twenty minute drive home was almost unbearably silent. As he shuts the engine off, Jack Bolton turns to his son, and Troy jumps at the sudden sound of speech. "Do we need to have a talk with the school counselor? …'Cause it doesn't look like you're handling this situation with Gabriella very well."

 "No, dad. Everything's fine." Troy hopes that he at least sounds like he believes that.

 "You know…" His dad purses his lips and grips the steering wheel. "Bein' in a relationship… it's not always easy." His gray eyes slide to Troy. "But, it shouldn't be _that_ difficult to get a girl that likes you to come and see you. I know she has big things going on in her life, but if Gabriella was serious about makin' things work between the two of you, she'd at least come down to go to the prom with you."

 "Yeah… I don't know, dad," Troy admits softly. He's immensely relieved that his father isn't angry at him, yet, the gravity of the sentiment in the senior Bolton's advice hits him pretty hard, all the same. "I wish things were that simple with Gabriella."

 His dad is at a loss for words. He seems to want to offer Troy condolences, or say something reassuring and uplifting. Instead, he waits until they're getting out of the vehicle to tell Troy, "You get to bed, okay?"

 Troy simply nods and murmurs, looking into his father's eyes, "Thanks for going to get me."

 Coach Bolton holds his son's gaze. Concern, and something that is uncomfortably close to helplessness, darken his eyes. "Yeah," he says quietly.

 Troy enters his room, slips out of his clothes, and throws on a pair of flannel pajama pants and a sleeveless undershirt. He then nestles in beneath his quilt and switches the lamp on his nightstand off, immersing his room in darkness. With no distractions, he can't stop his mind from recalling everything that Gabriella said. And, a lump rises in his throat. _Why did she tell me she_ loves _me if she's just going to keep saying "goodbye"?_

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 

 Troy doesn't tell anyone about the break-up. Not his parents, not even his best friend. It's not as though he doesn't want someone to confide in. Talking about your problems is good, it's healthy. He's known that since middle school. No, the fact is, he just doesn't want to be any more of a burden to the people he cares about.

 He doesn't want to go to school, either, but he makes himself get out of bed, eat half of the Eggo waffle his mother toasted for him, and brush his teeth. He has obligations to fulfill. He is _not_ going to let Ryan and Kelsi down. Gabriella may have left him, and it feels vaguely like a chunk of his heart was torn away when she hung up the phone, but the sun still rose in the sky, and life is still carrying on. Just like in that song about Jack and Dianne.

 Troy gets to his dresser, though, and it suddenly feels like foreign territory. Plaid, sweaters, black, blue, red, white, khaki, navy, green...

 Gabriella's voice swirls about his brain. _"Nice tie. Your shoes don't match, though!"_

  _"Khaki shorts with that shirt?_ Really _, Troy?"_

  _"Purple really isn't your color, Wildcat."_

  _"Troy,_ please _don't wear something that looks bad. Not when you're out in public with me."_

 This is wrong. That's wrong. Everything is wrong. Troy digs furiously through his drawers, looking for complementary colors, matching patterns, _anything_ that won't make him look stupid. _If Gabriella was here,_ he tells himself miserably _,_ she _would know what to do. She'd_ tell _me what to wear._

 Nothing seems to work. His mind is a chaotic disaster. He has no idea whether red goes with purple, or plaid and stripes can be worn together, he's completely at a loss.

 As he throws his last t-shirt onto the floor, his legs buckle, unable to hold his body weight up, anymore.

 "Troy, your dad is heading out the door. You're going to be late for-" Mrs. Bolton cuts herself off. From where she stands at the entrance to Troy's room, she takes in the mess; clothes tossed into haphazard piles all over the floor and the bed, and her teenaged son falling apart in the middle of it all. "Troy, what is _this_?"

 After a lengthy pause where his insides squirm with self-loathing, Troy chokes out, "I don't know what to wear."

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 Unsurprisingly, Ryan appears to surmise what happened, either from the look on his face, Troy supposes, or the aura that he's giving off. Regardless, Ryan pauses at Troy's desk in homeroom, distracting Troy from staring at Gabriella's empty seat. "You look good, Troy," he says with his brilliant Ryan smile.

 It doesn't feel like words thrown out there just to provide the recipient with a temporary burst of confidence. With Ryan, every compliment he addresses to Troy feels one-hundred percent genuine. This one inspires a faint smile to tug at the corners of Troy's mouth. "Really?"

 " _Really_ , really."

 As warm blush creeps across Troy's face, he has to laugh at the stupidity of his outburst, earlier this morning. In the end, he wound up tugging on a white t-shirt, a blue and black plaid over-shirt, and a pair of black jeans.

 Ryan arcs an eyebrow, perplexed at Troy's reaction.

 Troy motions for the smaller boy to move in closer so he can relay to him, "You know, Ry, my mom actually picked this out for me."

 "Oh! Well, hey." Ryan recovers from his surprise and says with an earnest smile, "Your mom has great taste."

 "I'll be sure to let her know." Troy grins as he watches Ryan walk back to his own desk.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 Classes drag on sluggishly, the rest of the day; merging together into a drawn-out blur. For everyone around him, it's business as usual, so Troy forces himself to pretend that there is nothing out of the ordinary going on on his end, as well.

 He is able to pull this off better than he anticipated… until rehearsals for the musical start during free period.

  _A friend like you_ , Sharpay vocalizes. She twirls around in a Gabriella-esque fashion and points to Troy from her position on the makeshift balcony, for emphasis.

  _Always makes it easy_ , Troy sings with her. He walks toward the stage, hoping that he's at least feigning some semblance of the happiness that the Troy Bolton that he's playing in the show- the Troy Bolton who is still happily dating Gabriella Montez- feels during this song.

 

_I know that you get me_

_Every time_

 

Troy's gaze flicks to Ryan, who gives him a gently encouraging smile from backstage.

 

_Through every up,_

_Through every down_

_You know I'll always_

_Be around_

 

_Through anything,_

_You can count on mee_ eeeee _!_

 

Sharpay's sugary sweet vocals morph into an ear-splitting shriek as a backdrop comes crashing down behind her.

 Troy cringes, his heart racing.

 Kelsi jumps up from her seat behind the piano in the orchestra pit.

 Ryan's eyes stretch wide, his hands cupped over the bridge of his nose in horror.

 Zeke Baylor rushes to the blonde theater queen's aid, and she swoons into his arms.

 "It's _sabotage_!" Sharpay cries out. "Someone is trying to get rid of me before my final show at this school!"

 Chad Danforth and his girlfriend, Taylor McKessie, roll their eyes, both of them sporting matching expressions of disgust.

 Ms. Darbus sweeps across the stage and begins lecturing the stage crew on the importance of "memorizing the cues to send out certain props and backdrops, so as not to jeopardize the safety of the cast".

 "It'll get better," Kelsi assures a crestfallen Troy as everyone files out of the auditorium. She wraps an arm around him in a sort of half-hug. "You'll see."

 At lunch, Ryan chips in, "You're doing great, Troy. You and my sister started to sound really good, together."

 "You think so?"

 Ryan nods. His blue eyes glow sincerely. "Don't worry about the incident, today," he says, touching Troy's shoulder reassuringly. "In theater, it's sort of a good thing for everything that can possibly go wrong to, you know, _go wrong_ , before opening night. That way, there's less of a chance of something happening to ruin the show."

 "No kidding." Troy smiles slightly between bites of his food.

 Ryan gives another sagely nod. "There's a reason we call the final week leading up to the show, 'Hell Week'".

 "I've never heard a more fitting title," Troy expresses, only partially joking.

 Hearing the final school bell ring brings on a relief akin to having a truck load of bricks lifted off of his shoulders for Troy. _Maybe_ , he allows himself to hope as he slides the straps of his book bag on, _the last few weeks of the school year will just meld together, passing by in a blur, and I'll only remember spending time with Ryan._

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 That evening, Troy is hyper conscious of the pictures of Gabriella in his bedroom. They're physical evidence of what he let slip through his fingers. Her smiling face seems to jeer him, _Why didn't you fight for me? Why did you let me go so easily, Troy?_

  _I didn't mean to. I_ tried _…! I…!_ Troy assures her, assures himself. But, it doesn't seem to be enough for either of them. With shaking hands and an unsteady pulse, Troy takes out his cellphone and dials Gabriella's number.

 He _can't_ just give up. He's not supposed to be a failure.

 After the first ring, someone answers only to immediately hang up.

 Troy doesn't know what he was expecting. He tosses his phone across the room and flops down onto his bed. Grief resurges with the force of a blow to the chest, and it feels as though she's broken up with him all over again. As he closes his eyes, Troy wishes he could wake up and find himself living someone else's life.

 When he reopens his eyes, the room is dark, and for an instant, he believes that he's legitimately become someone else.

 Then, his mother calls for him to come and get his dinner.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 

 The conversations in the cafeteria all blend into each other, becoming an incoherent buzz. From his isolated table, Troy makes out the voices of Chad Danforth, Zeke Baylor, and Jason Cross, his friends and former teammates on the basketball team. He doesn't enjoy eavesdropping, it makes him feel sort of scummy, but he zeroes in on their exchange, figuring that the topic is harmless.

 "Gabriella's probably hitting it off big time with the brains up at Stanford," Chad says while squirting a packet of ketchup onto his french fries.

 Zeke and Jason enthusiastically input with their agreement.

 Troy really doesn't want to hear this, but now that he's heard Gabriella's name, he can't tune them out. Especially not when Zeke quips, "Yeah, but are we talkin' about the brains in their _heads_ , or the brains in their _pants_?"

 Boisterous laughter ascends from their table.

 Troy pitches his bagged lunch into the nearest trashcan and leaves the cafeteria as quickly as his legs can carry him.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 East High's rooftop garden wasn't exactly the best place to go if he wanted to avoid thinking about Gabriella, Troy realizes in retrospect as he stands among the exotic plant life.

 He invited Gabriella up here, his junior year. He shared this place with her, and while sitting side by side, they confided in each other how it felt to be alienated from your peers via being placed on a pedestal, or dubbed a "freaky genius girl", due to only one aspect of their social appearances. Together, they agreed to do the school musical, because they wanted to break free of their schoolmates' perceptions of them.

 Troy and Gabriella once had so much in common.

 At least, Troy thought they did.

 Now, she's one-thousand miles away, and might well be talking Stoichiometry and advanced conjugations of the language of _l'amor_ with some freaky genius boy named Shawn, while he…

 "Troy?" Ryan's light voice causes Troy's heart to skip a beat.

 "Hey." Troy raises his hand in a half-hearted wave.

 "So, I heard what Zeke said, and…" Ryan starts.

 "Yeah, I know. Gabriella's getting good and acquainted with the pelvic regions of the geniuses at Stanford. Also, yeah, I'm a growing boy, and I need to eat." Troy falls into a seat on the bench, making certain not to accidentally bump into any of the potted plants set up around him, and drops his gaze into his lap. His stomach picks that moment to growl, demanding that food find a way into it, but his throat feels far too tight to swallow anything, even in liquid form.

 "I wasn't going to say that at all. But, you're right."

 Troy stiffens, biting the inside of his mouth to brace himself. Ryan _isn't_ -

 "You _do_ need to eat."

 Troy's eyes flick up guiltily. Ryan is one of the last people alive who would degrade him, _mock_ him, like that. Ryan is also one of the last people alive he should be copping an attitude with. "Ry, I'm sorry. I-" he starts.

 "Forget it." Ryan shrugs off both the apology and the very brief tension between them like it's second nature to him. "You've got more important things to concern yourself with than what she's up to," he adds in a low voice. He shuffles his feet in a way that Troy has always found endearingly awkward and holds out a tray of food containing a fruit cup, a sandwich, a carton of white milk, and a chocolate chip cookie. Soft encouragement lights up his eyes, and Troy can't refuse him even if he wanted to.

 Troy takes the tray. "Thank you, Ry," he conveys, hoping that his eyes hold a even a fraction of the warmth spreading throughout his body.

 Ryan brushes off the expression of gratitude for his deed. "Don't mention it." He swings his arms before tucking them behind his back and looking around. It's evident that he feels out of place. "Maybe, I should-"

 Troy shakes his head. "Sit," he says around a mouthful of ham, turkey, cheese, and lettuce on white bread, scooting aside to make room for the other boy.

 Ryan does as Troy instructs him to.

 Silence settles between them. Troy notes that it _isn't_ the thick, distinctly uncomfortable silence that used to stretch on when he and Gabriella couldn't think of anything to say to each other. Ryan is simply waiting patiently while Troy puts some much needed fuel into his otherwise empty stomach. He seems to alternate between eyeing the plants, watching Troy, and getting lost in his own thoughts.

 Troy stares out past the greenhouse, at the expanse of the rooftop, and feels his throat constrict with the memory of himself and Gabriella twirling across that very area. She skipped class, one day, several months ago, to teach him how to dance so he wouldn't make a fool of himself at the prom. "She's everywhere," he murmurs.

 "Hm?" Ryan turns to Troy, giving him his undivided attention.

 "Gabriella," Troy replies. He peels the flaps of the milk carton open and takes a sip from it as frustration clenches his abdomen. "People talk about her at school, there are pictures of her in my locker, she's in the show we're doing, this garden is _filled_ with memories of her, there are pictures of her all over my bedroom…" He pauses and shakes his head incredulously. "It's like she's everywhere I go, Ryan."

 His forehead creasing, Ryan chews the inside of his mouth in concern and deliberation. "Then, maybe you need to go somewhere that doesn't make you think about her. A "Gabriella-free", zone," he proposes.

 The words feel like a light at the end of a tunnel. "Did you have somewhere in particular in mind?" Troy asks, leaning into Ryan just a bit.

 "Um… well…" Pink colors Ryan's fair face. "I'd really lo- _like_ if you, I-I mean…"

 Troy gives the blond an encouraging nod. He can't help but smile at the fact that, even though Ryan struggles to communicate with people, at times, he's never allowed that to deter him from trying to get close to others.

 Ryan successfully recovers his poise. "It-It gets kind of lonely, puttering about a huge mansion all day." A very slight flirtatious flutter of his eyelashes accompanies his words.

 Troy takes hold of Ryan's hand. "It would be my honor to keep you company."

 "It would be _my_ honor to _have_ your company."Ryan's eyes shine with affection.

 Troy's heart feels the lightest it's felt in weeks. Ryan is going to provide him with a reprieve, an escape, and he's going to get to spend time with the sweet, insightful, quirky, beautiful, talented blond boy, in the process. Maybe, his wish to become someone else is coming true.

 At the same time, both boys seem to realize that they're still holding hands. Blushing, they simultaneously pull away. "So, um, you… you actually _heard_ what Zeke said?" Troy asks.

 Ryan nods and rolls his eyes in a repulsed fashion. "Yeah, I did. I hope you won't take offense to my saying so, but your friends are assholes, Troy."

 Troy is somewhat unnerved by the statement, but can't bring himself to deny it. Perhaps that's because some part of him, however minuscule, has known that his friends aren't exactly the greatest people since his junior year, when they actively tried to dissuade him from participating in the callback audition for the winter musical and nearly destroyed his budding relationship with Gabriella, simply because they felt that winning a basketball game and maintaining the status quo that jocks were "too cool", to interact with skaters, brainiacs, and drama geeks, was more important than their friend's happiness. The other times that they got upset with him, though, such as during their summer vacation, when he was trying to increase his chances of getting a scholarship to U of A, or laughed at him, like when his name was called as the fourth contender for a scholarship to Juilliard… _Their anger was entirely_ my _fault, and them laughing was all in good fun…_ Right _?_ Troy tries to reason with himself.

But, _really_ , if the guy who has to deal with Sharpay Evans on a daily basis deems someone an "asshole", who is Troy Bolton to question him?

"Not _all_ of my friends are assholes, Ry," Troy says softly. He touches his forehead to Ryan's, knocking the smaller boy's hat slightly askew. Ryan takes the hint and breaks into a grin that Troy eagerly reciprocates. As Ryan fixes the angle of his hat, Troy wraps an arm around him, drawing him into his chest.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

When he arrives for their private after school rehearsal, Ryan beckons Troy, who is sitting at the back of the auditorium, to follow him to the stage. "We're going to do something a little… _different_ , today."

His curiosity piqued, Troy slips his hands into his jeans pockets and falls into step behind him.

"I have a song that I'd like to work on with you." Troy must have subconsciously pulled a face, or something, because Ryan hastily assures him, "Don't worry. It's not from the musical."

Ryan ascends the stairs onto the stage and briefly disappears. He emerges seconds later, wheeling out the big stereo system from backstage, and it suddenly occurs to Troy that a certain tiny brunette composer is nowhere to be seen. "Where's Kels?"

"Her mom needed her to run some errands," Ryan replies. "She apologized profusely, but I gave her the go ahead. She's working herself ragged, rearranging the songs to suit my sister's vocal style." His voice brims with sympathy as he hooks his Ipod up to the speaker and grabs the stereo's remote control.

"Geez," Troy winces.

"Bu-uut, anyway…" Ryan walks back downstage. He holds out a hand, and Troy helps him, easily lowering his lightweight body onto the floor in the orchestra pit. It doesn't escape his notice that the male half of the Evans twins feels more natural and… _right_ in his arms than his sister ever has. Once he's situated himself, a lightly flushed Ryan pulls a sheet of lyrics out of his messenger bag, and sets it on the piano. He then proceeds to take a seat behind the instrument. "I um, I think this exercise will be cathartic for you."

"'Cathartic'," Troy echoes, his brows furrowed with intrigue. "Well, can't hurt to try, huh?" He says with a shrug.

Ryan smiles, as if thrilled by Troy's willingness. He points the remote at the stereo, and a track with a gripping guitar intro pours out of the speakers. Putting his hands to the keys, Ryan plays along as he sings, his pitch-perfect light alto-tenor soulful, and just a touch embittered:

 

_You could change your life-_

_If you wanna_

_You could change your clothes-_

_If you wanna_

 

_If you change your mind,_

_Well, that's the way it goes_

 

_But, I'm gonna keep your jeans_

_And, your old flat hat-_

_'Cause I wanna_

_They look good on me_

_You're never gonna get them back_

 

His fingers move daintily across the keys and his vocal dynamic increases gently.

 

_At least not today,_

_Not today_

_Not today_

 

_'Cause…!_

 

The next set of lyrics directly impacts Troy's heart.

 

_If it's over,_

_Let it go and,_

_Come tomorrow, it will seem_

_So yesterday, so yesterday_

 

_I'm just a bird that's already flown away_

 

Ryan looks to Troy, and he seems to be pleading with him;

_Laugh it off_

_And let it go, and_

_When you wake up, it will seem_

_So yesterday, so yesterday_

 

_Haven't you heard that I'm gonna be okay?_

 

He nods invitingly toward the sheet of lyrics. Troy takes this as a signal to move in closer.

As Ryan finishes his verse with a soft, triumphant sort of laugh and an affirmation of, _Okay_ , Troy would have been content to just stand back and listen to Ryan's lovely, lilting voice, but he licks at his upper lip and clears his throat. He does his best to match his voice to the notes sounding from the piano, letting the emotions that drive the words come from his heart. His legs shake as his subconscious conjures an image of Gabriella, and he addresses the lyrics to her.

 

_You could say you're bored-_

_If you wanna_

_You could act real tough-_

_If you wanna_

 

_You could say you're torn,_

_But I've heard enough_

 

_Thank you,_

_You made my mind up_

_For me_

_When you started to_

_Ignore me_

 

_Can you see a single tear?_

_It isn't gonna happen here_

 

_At least, not today_

_Not today_

_Not today_

 

With Ryan beside him, smiling proudly and encouraging him, Troy's confidence increases. Suddenly, the passion that seemed to have left him begins to reemerge and backs up his singing. The break-up _wasn't_ entirely his fault. Gabriella…she made him feel like nothing he did was ever good enough, like he wasn't worth the effort, like he was expendable, in her eyes.

And, for those reasons, maybe it _is_ time to accept that it's over- officially, totally- and to let her go.

 

_'Cause_

 

Together, Troy and Ryan sing through the chorus, Ryan providing a harmony to Troy's melody. Troy no longer needs to read the sheet of lyrics. The words are coming directly from his heart.

 

_If it's over,_

_Let it go and,_

_Come tomorrow, it will seem_

_So yesterday, so yesterday_

 

_I'm just a bird that's already flown away_

 

_Laugh it off,_

_And let it go and,_

_When you wake up, it will seem_

_So yesterday, so yesterday_

 

_Haven't you heard that I'm gonna be okay?_

 

Ryan thrums out several sweeping chords on the piano, then abandons the instrument to follow Troy onto the stage as Troy continues to sing to an imaginary Gabriella;

 

_If you're over me,_ he sings, climbing over the railing and landing on the makeshift balcony.

_I'm already over you_

 

_If it's all been done_ , Ryan agrees. 

_What is left to do?_

 

He moves behind the paned-glass door and opens it. With an enticing pivot of his hips, he joins Troy on the stage.

_How can you hang up_

_If the line is dead?_

 

Troy insists, adrenaline coursing through his veins, invigorating him;

_If you wanna walk,_ He grips the railing with both hands and jumps several paces toward center stage.

_I'm a step ahead_

 

Ryan moves to the rail and mimics Troy's movement with ease, bringing himself closer to the former athlete.

 

_If you're movin' on,_

_I'm already gone_ Troy takes another several steps away from the Gabriella in his mind's eye, and she abruptly vanishes.

 

_If the light is off,_ Ryan starts, arcing another graceful jump toward Troy.

_Then it isn't on,_ Troy finishes with him, and suddenly, they're face to face. Troy stares into Ryan's sky colored eyes. Ryan raises one of his brows, a proud smile illuminating his face, as if he intends for Troy to comprehend something, and that's when Troy realizes what transpired.

He's just executed the very choreography that he has been grappling with for the last week _perfectly_.

Ryan was right, all along.

Grinning, Troy takes one more step into Ryan and resumes singing softly; _At least, not today_

 

_Not today_ , Ryan vocalizes at a mezzo piano dynamic. He steps into Troy, too.

 

_Not today_ , they finish together. His heart racing, Troy closes his eyes and touches his nose to Ryan's. When Ryan not only doesn't pull away, but also nuzzles his nose tenderly against Troy's, a burst of happiness floods every centimeter of Troy's body.

_I love you, Ryan_ , he admits to himself. _Fuck, I love you_ so much _…_.!

 Troy reopens his eyes to find Ryan's eyes shining with that affection that fills Troy with a sense of empowerment that seems to reach every nerve-ending in his body. Exchanging a glance with each other, the boys spring away from the edge of the balcony, and move back toward the doors. They sing with gusto, their voices blending seamlessly into one another.

 

_Cause…!_

 

_If it's over,_

_Let it go and,_

 

They link hands, and execute the next maneuver that Troy struggled to perfect. With each movement, Troy can hear Ryan's light voice reciting the instructions; " _Walk, walk walk. Jump in. Around the world, and… spin out."_

 

_Come tomorrow, it will seem_

_So yesterday, so yesterday_

 

_I'm just a bird that's already flown away_

 

On "flown away", Troy spins Ryan out effortlessly. Ryan stops himself-mid-spin to look to Troy. He beams at the taller boy, marking down another flawless execution. Joy and self-confidence swell in Troy's chest uninhibited. There's no Gabriella to tell him that every other step he's making is another mistake worthy of scathing criticism and penalization, and the guys aren't there to laugh at him.

 It's just him, _Troy_ , free of all of the pressures that often feel like they're smothering him, Ryan, one of the best friends that he's ever had, the boy who never stopped believing in him and never gave up on him, even when Troy had given up on himself, and the music. Troy feels capable of doing or being anything, and that old spark, the one that drew him to the stage in the first place, has at last been reignited.

 Troy takes hold of Ryan's hand, and, while Ryan gives Troy a questioning look very briefly, he follows without hesitation as Troy dashes off of the balcony, backstage, and then out of the auditorium altogether. They run down the hallways of an empty school, their footfalls almost matching their voices in volume.

_Laugh it off,_

_And let it go and,_

_When you wake up, it will seem_

_So yesterday, so yesterday_

 

_Haven't you heard?_

 

Letting his regained confidence fuel him, Troy opens his locker. " _You're so yesterday,_ " he informs the picture of Gabriella before tearing it down.

 

_So yesterday_

_So yesterday_

_So yesterday_ , he sings as Ryan backs him up with:

 

_If it's over,_

_Let it go and,_

_Come tomorrow, it will seem_

_So yesterday, so yesterday_

 

_You're just a bird that's already flown away_

 

Troy takes in the picture of Gabriella, her liquid brown eyes that could either brighten his day, or mercilessly cut him down with one look, her waves of sweet-smelling, shining dark hair that felt so soft when they brushed against his chin, the smile that once felt like his reason for living…

 

_You're_

_So_

_Yesterday_

_So yesterday_

_So yesterday,_ he tells her, believing it more with every repetition of the phrase.

 

Ryan backs him up readily, his voice sonorous and wholeheartedly supportive:

_Laugh it off,_

_And, let it go and,_

_When you wake up, it will seem_

_So yesterday, so yesterday_

 

Drawing in a breath to steel himself, Troy balls the picture of Gabriella up. He clenches it tightly, not because he wants to hold onto it, to _her_ , he acknowledges, but because he isn't afraid, anymore. He makes his way over to a trashcan several feet away.

 Ryan nods supportively. "Go for it", his eyes say.

 

_Haven't you heard that I'm gonna be okay?_ Troy vocalizes, his voice soft, but his conviction in those words unwavering. He holds the picture over the trash barrel and lets go.

 It's done.

 At least, for today.

 Newly energized, Troy runs back to Ryan and envelops the petite boy in his arms, hugging him tightly. Ryan returns the embrace, his hands coming up to squeeze Troy's shoulder blades. It feels like two puzzle pieces have at long last interlocked. Ryan's sweet, borderline intoxicating scent fills Troy's nose and Troy plants a kiss on Ryan's soft, smooth cheek. "Thank you, Ryan," he whispers into the crook of Ryan's creamy neck. "You really _are_ easier to dance with than she is."

 It takes a second, but Ryan melts into Troy's arms, pressing his head against Troy's cheek. His hat is nearly knocked off of his head, but he doesn't appear to care. "It's nothing at all. _Really_ ," he replies, his voice husky and just slightly unsteady.

 Troy detects _something_ in Ryan's intonation, and it makes him wish that for just a sliver in time, he wouldn't ever have to let go.

 

 


	2. Part 2

 

**_ Parachute _ **

 

2.

 

"Are you sure you wanna stay at the Evans place?" Coach Bolton asks his son. His brows are knitted and his gray eyes are darkened with concern.

A thorn of guilt pierces Troy's chest for getting upset with his father, nearly a week ago. "Yeah, I'm sure. I think a change of scene will be good for me. It'll be therapeutic, you know?"  When he announced his plan to seek refuge with Ryan, he had to provide an explanation for his departure from the Bolton residence. That entailed breaking down and divulging to his parents that he and Gabriella were no longer an item.

They offered him the sympathetic comments and pitying glances that he expected, along with the typical spiel about "other fish in the sea". Under different circumstances, that part of the usual show of support in the aftermath of the dissolving of a relationship that he poured so much into would have earned the speaker a half-hearted withering look before Troy shut down and let his melancholy consume him. With his current circumstances, however, Troy not only accepts the notion of "other fish", he agrees with it . If he's honest, there's been "other fish", or rather, _one_ "fish" for some time, now.

"Well, you be on your best behavior," Mrs. Bolton says as she takes Troy into a hug.

"I will, mom," he promises her as he returns the embrace.

"And, don't go getting into any… _trouble_ with that Sharpay girl, okay?" His father adds anxiously as Troy and his mother step away from each other.

"That won't even be an issue, dad," Troy assures him, his stomach roiling at the implication in that sentiment. Fooling around with Sharpay Evans is the absolute last thing he'd _ever_ do, even if he _was_ looking for a sloppy rebound. Troy tosses his last bag into the back of his truck, and then climbs into the driver's seat. He lets out a relieved sigh when the engine starts without much difficulty, gives both of his parents a parting wave, and then maneuvers out of the driveway.

Faint homesickness sets in after a few seconds. He's not used to staying away from home for extended periods of time without his parents right there with him. Whatever college he winds up attending, whether it's his dad's alma mater in their home state, or the Juilliard University all the way across the country in New York, it will be tough on the entire family if and when he moves out. He'll miss getting paternal advice, watching TV in the evenings with them, and sitting down to a nice home-cooked meal. He'll miss playing basketball, helping out with repairs around the house and in the garage, and cooking on the grill, with his dad, and shopping, learning how to sew, how to treat specific ailments, and studying capillaries, arteries, and the human nervous system, with his mom.

As for his parents, knowing that their only son is just a few weeks away from crossing the stage at graduation, and, eventually, starting his own life as an adult, doesn't come without its own concerns and burdens.

Still, Troy can't help but feel like he's shrugging off a pair of shackles as he heads down the road, away from his room full of pictures of Gabriella, and the self-deprecating thoughts that these pictures cause.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

It's no surprise that Sharpay answers the door when Troy arrives at the Evans mansion. "Hi, Troy," she coos, fluttering her eyelashes and smirking. "I take it you're here to see _me_ , so we can rehearse our kissing scene?"

Troy forces out a laugh, his skin prickling with discomfort. "Actually, I um…"

A pair of pale hands appears from behind Sharpay, and, coming down on her shoulders, lightly moves her aside. "Sis, at least give him room to get into the house," Ryan's light voice chides the blonde girl.

Sharpay lets out a scoff, wearing a scandalized expression as she recedes from Troy's line of sight and winds up on the other side of the open door, no longer visible to Troy. 

Relief washes over Troy in a giant wave as Ryan's familiar blue eyes, hatted head, and soft features come into view. "Hey!" Ryan greets his brunet houseguest cheerfully.

"Hey," Troy returns, smiling.

"Come on in." Ryan uses one arm to guide Troy into the house, and the other to gesture vaguely at the estate's interior. "We have movies we can watch, I can help you with your homework, there's plenty of music to listen to, and we have a game room with--"

Before Troy can even attempt to respond, both he and Ryan are cut off by another knock at the door. Together, they turn around to check out the identity of the other visitor. Troy fleetingly hopes that it isn't Zeke. He sincerely doesn't want to be subjected to the sounds of his friend "buttering Sharpay's muffin", and he's about ninety-nine percent sure that Ryan shares that feeling.

 "Can someone get that?" Sharpay calls out, her voice echoing down the entry way.

Troy almost expects a butler to come skittering out of a corridor and open the front door. When one doesn't appear, he turns to Ryan, bewildered.

Ryan's mouth promptly clamps shut, his lips pursing in exasperation. He shoots his sister a pointed look. "Shar, I'm-"

"Ry." Sharpay says, silencing his argument, just like that. There's another knock, and she fires back at her brother with an expectant look.

Ryan heaves a sigh of resignation, then moves over to answer the door.

Troy can only shake his head. Sharpay's treatment of her brother is nowhere near as bad as it was over summer vacation, but it still deeply bothers him that Sharpay bosses Ryan around without any regard for his personal feelings.

As Ryan pulls the door open, Tiara Gold, a blonde sophomore and Sharpay's understudy in the musical, steps right in. She crosses the threshold into the entry way of the estate, not bothering to spare Ryan even a passing glance.

_That's pretty_ rude, Troy thinks to himself.

"Good evening, Miss Evans," Tiara drawls out, smiling pleasantly as she grips the strap of a large bag hanging from her shoulder. She holds a Starbucks cup in her free hand. The chocolate syrup-coated spiral of whipped cream on top of the beverage is layered so high, it's practically spilling over the lid. "I'm here for our nightly rehearsals."

"Oh, right! Duh!" Sharpay says. However, her inflection, and the self-assured smile that she slaps on, make it obvious that she forgot all about any rehearsal the two girls had scheduled.

Troy and Ryan trade amused glances with each other as Ryan returns to Troy's side.

Reclaiming her controlling demeanor and taking on an assertive stance, Sharpay asks the younger blonde girl, "Did you bring my chocolate chip Frappuccino?"

"Of course," Tiara chirps. She holds the cup up, and Troy notices that the corner of her mouth gives a minute, but telling, twitch of irritation. 

Sharpay lets out a giggle. " _Fabulous_!" She says, punctuating the comment with a small squeal of delight. She struts forward, her heels clicking, to retrieve her drink. Tiara transfers the cup over to Sharpay and extracts the straw from a pocket in her bag. Tearing the wrapper open swiftly, she then hands the bright green straw over to Sharpay, who slides it into the designated hole in the lid. It's a very easy and efficient process.

Troy observes, _It's almost like this is just part of the routine, for them_.

Sharpay takes a sip of the frappe, and then remarks, either to herself or all three of the people in the room, Troy isn't quite sure which, "You know, I don't know why I never thought of getting a personal assistant, before." 

"Sometimes, people just happen to come into your life at precisely the right time," Tiara says rather saccharinely, shifting to accommodate the weight of the bag.

Ryan's eyes narrow with suspicion. Troy meets the look that Ryan throws his way, his own brows raised inquisitively. They appear to be on the same wavelength.

"Anyway," Tiara continues, "I couldn't help noticing a strange vehicle parked outside your home; a truck that appears to have gone to rack and ruin." 

Troy flushes. His stomach flips with mild embarrassment. Part of him wants to say something in defense of his poor, hand-me-down pickup, even despite all of the trouble it's given him since he inherited the vehicle from his dad. It's his first car. It gives him the freedom to just hop inside and go wherever he feels compelled to… sort of. It may be a rust bucket with a faulty, unreliable engine and a deceased fuel pump, and the issues with it either earned him scornful glares or ridiculing laughter from his friends and Gabriella, but he's really fond of it. Ryan's hand touches Troy's back sympathetically, and Troy feels a pang in his chest. _He didn't laugh at Tiara's comment on my truck…. Like Gabriella would have._

"Oh, that'd be Troy's," Sharpay states flatly.

This causes Tiara to finally acknowledge the presence of the other two people in the room. She turns to look at the two boys.

Troy gives her a nod, not wanting to combat rude behavior with rude behavior, and Ryan flashes her a strained smile.

Sharpay takes another sip from her coffee and adds, "He and my brother are having some kind of extended slumber party."

A smirk curls the ends of Tiara's lips and intrigue lights her hazel eyes. "Are they, now?"

"Yeah," Sharpay affirms. "But, personally, I think Ryan just wants to get in some of his own 'rehearsal time', with Troy."

Tiara stifles a laugh.

Heat creeps into Troy's cheeks, and a stricken Ryan's fair face has taken on a reddish hue. The male Evans twin's posture is rigid, his eyes focused intently on the floor. Troy can tell by looking at him that Ryan's insides are writhing with shame. Throwing his arm out to get the attention off of his dear friend, Troy says casually, "Hey, if that's what he has planned, I don't mind." He smiles and adds confidently, "I'll bet anything that Ryan is a _great_ kisser."

Ryan perks right up, his eyes glowing softly. A hopeful smile tugs at his lips as he asks, "Really?"

Sharpay falters, her brown eyes stretching wide. She appears to struggle to keep herself from spitting out her next gulp of coffee. " _Really_?" She manages to exclaim.

"Really," Troy confirms, sliding an arm around Ryan's shoulders.

Sharpay scrutinizes Troy, her eyes narrowed, as if searching for an indication that he's lying.

An odd smile spreads across Tiara's face.

Troy doesn't concern himself with either girl's reaction, however. He's too busy grinning, because the joy radiating from Ryan is contagious, and wondering what kissing Ryan would feel like. Taste like.

"Well, isn't that sweet," Sharpay deadpans before collecting herself and popping out her hip. "Come on," she says, her gaze moving to Tiara. "I wanna make sure you're doing me justice."

Tiara's smile immediately slips from her face, replaced by a docile expression. She wordlessly falls into step behind Sharpay as the girls head down the long hallway and then turn, entering a door to their left.

Ryan and Troy relocate themselves, as well. As Ryan sashays along in front of him, Troy wars with himself to prevent his eyes from training themselves on the outward curves of Ryan's shapely rear end. It doesn't do him any favors that said rear end is emphasized by the blond's form-fitting, eye-catchingly bright pink shot through with black zebra stripes jeans.

"Whoa," Troy marvels, dropping his bags down in the younger Evans twin's spacious room once they've arrived at it. Ryan's bed is _gigantic_ ; probably the size of two and a half of Troy's twin size bed, at home, put together. The walls of the room are a soft lavender in color. Posters of various musicals adorn them, including posters from some of Ryan and Sharpay's drama club productions. Troy can't help but smile at the sight of Ryan in costume, immersed completely in his element. Then, something else catches his eye. On one wall, there's a poster of Troy, himself. He recalls seeing one like it hanging up around the school during the basketball season.

"Make yourself at home," Ryan says warmly, gesturing vaguely at the room's interior before clasping his hands together and stepping aside. " _Ma maison_ is _your_ _maison_."

"Thanks. I really appreciate it." Troy expresses his gratitude with a smile and a nod.

"Don't mention it." Ryan flicks his wrist dismissively.

Troy takes a few more paces into the room, eyeing the poster thoughtfully as he approaches it. It's a complimentary picture of him, he notes, unlike some of the more embarrassing photos that have been used to glorify his existence. He's smiling and dressed in his basketball uniform, biceps exposed.

Ryan follows Troy's line of sight and gapes very briefly before offering up a bashful, "Support your school, right?"

"Right," Troy confirms, even though he's not exactly convinced. He flashes Ryan a smirk that's both amused and genuinely flattered. Inside, however, his heart misses a beat with the realization that his feelings for the blond boy might be mutual.

Then, he feels kind of stupid for not seeing that a long time ago. Among everything else, including convincing him to get out onstage to perform in the Lava Springs talent show, last summer, so he could impress the boosters from U of A and receive a scholarship, Ryan, who was afraid of the athletes on the basketball team for most of their junior year, _did_ perform backflips and prance around wearing a fifteen pound fur suit as the team mascot, just to encourage cheering and show support for Troy and his teammates.

_After_ he and Troy became friends.

If that's not a display of love, then Troy is honestly not sure what qualifies as one.

_Wait,_ love _? Ryan, who is so obviously bound for Broadway it's inevitable that he'll get there, loves_ me _?_ Troy is given significant pause by the direction his thoughts have taken. In an attempt to ease his racing heart and the heavy feeling constricting his chest, he turns his attention to the soreness in his arm from holding his belongings for so long. He rolls his shoulder and takes in the full length mirror at one end of Ryan's room, and the tall bookshelf lining the wall opposite where they stand. He feels a smile tug lightly at the ends of his mouth as he spots his favorite book, Harper Lee's _To Kill A Mockingbird_ , sitting on one of the shelves.

Troy promptly turns to Ryan as the smaller boy says, "There's something about that girl. I just… I don't know." He sighs, folding his arms anxiously over his chest.

 "What is it?" Troy inquires gently. He ceases tending to his own arm and moves to rub at Ryan's shoulder.

"Tiara doesn't seem trustworthy, to me," Ryan admits in a low voice, looking to Troy. "Shar thinks I'm just being paranoid, or 'xenophobic', or something." 

"'Xenophobic'?" Troy echoes, his eyebrow elevated confusedly.

"Her phrasing, not mine," Ryan clarifies. "She says that Tiara is "sweet",  and I'm letting my anxieties about the musical cloud my judgment." He stares in the direction of the room that the two girls went into. "But, I think it's just a little… _off,_ that Tiara was so willing to step in to play my sister in the show."

"Well," Troy begins thoughtfully, "I _did_ notice that the way Tiara was acting was sort of… _iffy_. I don't wanna jump to any conclusions, but if you're getting bad vibes from her, then I believe you, Ry."

"Thank you, Troy," Ryan murmurs. His eyes brim with an intense longing that feels as though it's taken on a physical form and struck Troy's heart directly, making it ache. "I can always count on you."

"Yeah. Yeah, you can," Troy promises softly. He hesitates for a second or so, and nearly falters, but pulls Ryan into him, touching his nose to the petite boy's temple.

Ryan shifts in closer, and Troy can hear both Ryan's heart and his own, hammering in their chests. Ryan's breath is on his cheek, the hair on Troy's arms and legs is standing up from the shivers of desire traversing his entire body, and the impulse to capture Ryan's mouth with his own is all but overpowering.

But, he doesn't want to hold Ryan back from achieving his dreams.

And, he doesn't want to watch someone else that he cares about leave him behind.

So, he makes himself leave Ryan's side. Letting go is every bit as torturous as it was that day in English class. "Ry, I'm going to take a shower, okay?"  Troy says. He'll be able to think clearly in there, and get a grip on where things are going… and where he wants to take this.

"Alright." Ryan licks at his upper lip and nods, sounding just a little dismayed. Troy's heart gives a wistful pang in response. Straightening his back, Ryan declares, "I'll make sure my sister doesn't try to jump your bones, or anything."

"You're the best," Troy voices sincerely. Despite his inclination to press a kiss to Ryan's cheek, or his lips, he settles for giving Ryan's shoulder an affectionate squeeze, and then unzips his bag to pull out his pajamas.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

Ryan takes up a station outside the closed bathroom door. By all appearances, Sharpay is still rehearsing with Tiara, but the boys decide to be safe, rather than sorry.

As Troy slips out of his jeans and boxers and begins tugging his shirt over his head, he inquires, "So, what book are you reading, Ry?"

" _Where the Sidewalk Ends_ ," Ryan replies.

Troy pauses at the familiar title. "By Shel Silverstein?"

"Yes!" Ryan affirms happily.

Troy pulls his socks off and smiles. "That's a great book. I used to read it all the time, when I was a kid."

"Yeah, me too." The smile is audible in Ryan's voice.

"Do you…" Troy trails off, feeling slight embarrassment at his request, but he presses on. "Do you wanna read me one of the poems?"

"Sure," Ryan answers, unquestioning, perfectly willing to do what Troy asks.

Troy feels the sensation commonly known as "butterflies in the stomach", and his heart beats faster. As he figures out how to work the faucet and shower head, Ryan begins to read.

"'Sandra's seen a leprechaun/Eddie touched a troll/Laurie danced with some witches once/Charlie found some goblins' gold/Donald heard a mermaid sing/Susy spied an elf/But all the magic I have known/I've had to make myself'."

While he allows the spray of hot water to wet his hair, and begins lathering some ocean-scented Suave body wash onto his pectorals, _"Make myself"_ , echoes in Troy's mind. "Could you read another one?" He asks.

Ryan complies. His voice lilts soothingly as he reads, "A tree house, a free house/A secret you and me house/A high up in the leafy branches/Cozy as can be house/A street house, a neat house/Be sure and wipe your feet house/Is not my kind of house at all-/Let's go live in a tree house'."

The light timbres of Ryan's voice lull Troy into a place where his thoughts flow freely. He rubs the body wash along his back, shoulders, and biceps, and contemplates everything. His feelings for Ryan, his desire to leap out of the shower, burst into the hallway, and sweep the blond boy into his arms where he would kiss him with everything he's got, and squeeze Ryan's dangerous tail. And, how thinking about doing that inspires a twinge of need in his cock. He wants to hold Ryan, confide in him, say and do things that cause Ryan to break into that megawatt smile, cuddle with him… just freaking _be_ with him.

Once more, however, inkling suspicions that he isn't good enough for Ryan creep up on him and begin battering his brain. It's one more voice in his head, insisting that it knows what's best for him.

Popularity. Basketball. Obeying his friends and not defying the status quo. Winning the championship game. Giving Gabriella the summer that she wanted. Promising to sing with Sharpay for the sake of his job at the country club owned by her parents. Pursuing a scholarship opportunity extended to him by Mr. Evans. Forfeiting the scholarship opportunity to stay in his friends' high esteem. Going to U of A. Participating in theater. Gabriella. Letting Gabriella go, even if it hurts him. Staying with Gabriella, even if _she_ hurts him. What everyone else wants for him, _from_ him, conflicts with what he wants. It feels like it's _always_ been that way, and that disparity vaults his mind into disarray. It transforms him into, reduces him to an emotionally broken shell of everything that he might ever want to be.

As long as he's "The Basketball Guy", "Hoopsman", "The Wildcat Superstar", "Captain", "East High's Primo Boy", and "Wildcat", people are happy with him. They adore and idolize him.

Just _Troy_ is never good enough. _Troy_ never meets anyone's standards. _Troy_ is…

_NO_! Troy's voice, the only voice that he needs to listen to, and the one voice that has been silenced, repressed for too long, overpowers the others, drowning out the dissonant symphony composed of his father, Chad, the guys on the basketball team, the Wildcats, Sharpay, and _Gabriella_. He rakes in a breath to stabilize himself as tears prick his eyes. Ryan is good to him. Ryan is sweet, wonderful, smart, _so attractive_ , always has his best interests at heart, and values him as _just Troy_.

It's not criminal to want him.

_Troy_ deserves to have one truly, wholly good thing in his life, one that doesn't have any self-serving ulterior motives or destructive downsides, right?

_I'm_ going _to_ _figure things out_ , Troy tells himself, his chest heaving with resolution and desperation. _I'll_ make _myself good enough for Ryan_. _Because, if Ryan feels even_ half _of what I feel for him, then why the hell_ shouldn't _we be together?_

He steps under the shower head, rinsing his body off- the sensation reminds him of another Hilary Duff song, "Come Clean"- and then retrieves the shampoo and conditioner. As he squirts the shampoo, which smells kind of like a pina coloda, onto his palm, he resolves that, _Ryan has been there, every time, to catch me when I fell. So, I'm going to be_ his _parachute._

The lid to the shampoo closes on the first try with a satisfying snap.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

Cool air streams in as the bathroom door opens, letting out the steam that filled the room and fogged the mirror. Peering in, Ryan asks, "Troy? Is everything okay?", and then promptly stops himself. His mouth hangs open, his eyes riveted on Troy as they pan down the former athlete's bare chest to the cottony towel hanging low on his waist.

Troy tries to come up with something sexy to say that's appropriate for the situation, such as, "Like what you see?", or, "I can _totally_ show you _everything._ Just say the magic word".  However, he isn't exactly a frequent treader on the grounds of what constitutes as, "sexy", territory. He only got to what the guys on the team crudely referred to as "first base" with Gabriella. And, he doesn't want to weird Ryan out, either, or come off sounding like a total creep, or a moron.

Also, he's basically naked. He's never been at his most confident in the nude, comments on his physique and rumors about him being some sort of "sex god", at East High, not withstanding. So, he substitutes a sexy one-liner for his trademark Troy Bolton smile, amplifying the charm, just a bit, and shoots Ryan an inviting look from beneath his eyelashes as he asks, his voice perhaps a bit huskier than he wanted it to be, "Hey, Ry… can I borrow your hair dryer?"

"Y-Yeah," Ryan replies, dazed. With visible effort, he tears his eyes away from Troy and turns back, heading toward his bedroom.

When Ryan hands the hair dryer over, his fingertips graze the back of Troy's hand, inciting shivers. Troy almost believes that he was imagining the touch, until Ryan casts an unmistakably flirty look Troy's way and puts an extra sway to his hips as he exits the room. "I'm just going to go change into something more… um, _comfortable_ , and I'll leave you to that."

"Alright." Troy ignores Ryan's very small verbal fumble, and smiles softly. He can feel heat pooling in his stomach, gradually trickling down… down. As Troy unwraps the towel and pulls his clean pair of boxers and East High sweat pants up his waist, he hears the slightly muffled sounds of Sharpay escorting Tiara to the front door.

"Just remember," he can make out Sharpay's voice saying, "if you're going to play me with any kind of accuracy, you need to have the walk down. Since we, unfortunately, can't surgically rearrange your bone structure to match mine, the walk will just have to do."

"Yes, Miss Evans," Tiara replies, chipper and dutiful.

"Good." Sharpay's inflection softens. "See you on Monday," she says almost… sweetly?

"Bright and early," Tiara confirms. Maybe, it's due to Ryan drawing his attention to it, or Tiara being kind of transparent, but Troy discerns that there is definitely a degree of falsity backing her enthusiasm. He then feels guilty for listening in and proceeds to tune the girls out.

Troy rakes his hands through his hair as he runs the hair dryer over it. When the heat from the dryer's highest setting feels like it's cooking his scalp, he pauses briefly to comb his hair out and make sure that his bangs are parted correctly. He takes in his reflection in the ornately framed, brightly lit mirror; tanned skin, blue eyes, long black lashes, defined cheek bones, full lips, just visible freckles dotting his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Troy never comprehended what it was about his exterior that people found so attractive.

But, if _Ryan Evans_ is attracted to him, he must be at least halfway decent looking.

His train of thought takes a detour as he makes out Ryan's clear alto-tenor rising melodiously. The words Ryan is singing are rich, heartfelt. They take hold of Troy's heartstrings and give them a sharp tug, and Troy listens, hypnotized, captivated.

 

_I know I tend to get_

_So insecure_

_It doesn't matter_

_Anymore_

 

_It's not always rainbows_

_And butterflies_

_It's compromise_

_It moves us along_

 

_My heart is full_

_And my door's always open_

_You come any time_

_You want_

 

Troy takes a step, fully prepared to leave the bathroom and go to Ryan's room, hoping for some ridiculously romantic thing to ensue. Until, his phone goes off.

The name that flashes on the caller id turns his blood to ice in his veins: _Gabriella._  

_"_ Why _?!"_ Troy wants to cry out. _"Why are you calling me_ now _?"_ After hanging up on him, breaking his heart, guilting him for not answering her call during a math test, moving away while he was at school so she wouldn't have to face him… After _everything_ …!

He's _done_. Gabriella is _so yesterday_. She's stuck in the past, wanting to stay in high school and mentally retrogress back to kindergarten. Troy, meanwhile, is ready for the future.

He leaves her call to go to voicemail.

As Troy enters Ryan's room, Ryan- who has changed into a light blue t-shirt and black and white checkered pajama pants, and still manages to look amazingly _hot_ in his dressed-down state- is still singing passionately, his voice full and strong, as if he's performing for an audience in his mind.

 

_Look for the boy with the broken smile_

_Ask him if he wants to stay a while_

 

Troy, sure that Ryan would dazzle _any_ audience, makes his presence known, clearing his throat.

Ryan quiets down and pulls out his earbuds. "Hey," he says softly.

"Hey," Troy murmurs. "Um…" He moves forward, and sits down on the bed, just a few inches away from Ryan. "Don't you think you deserve some love, too, Ry?" He whispers, hoping that the warmth in his voice and expression convey just how much he means it.

Ryan ducks his head, his cheeks flaring pink. "I-I… Well, uh…" he starts, then appears to lose his train of thought entirely because, clenching the bed sheets just to Ryan's right, Troy leans in. Ryan's eyelashes veil his sky-colored eyes. His breath tickles the skin on Troy's face, and a pleasant shivering breaks out over Troy's body. The sensation of butterflies fluttering about, batting their tiny wings, intensifies in Troy's stomach.

Tongue flicking over his upper lip to dampen it- he makes a brief mental note to invest in some chap stick- Troy closes his eyes and presses his lips to Ryan's.

He has only ever kissed Gabriella, so it's not as if he has a lot to compare this to. The first thing he observes is that Ryan's lips are soft, just like hers. The second thing he observes is that kissing Ryan _isn't_ a chaste, awkwardly passionless experience. _Unlike_ kissing Gabriella. Ryan kisses back without any hesitation, gasping softly, and the sound is so _wonderful_ , in fact, it's almost sort of musical, that Troy emits a low moan deep in his throat, in response. Troy's pulse races in his chest and his temples, and when Ryan's tongue slips into his mouth, he grunts, pleasure engulfing every nerve in his body.

Those skilled hands roam over Troy's chest, his back, stroke through his still slightly damp hair, caress his face, and it's not like kissing Gabriella, at all. It's almost… _better_. As Ryan trails kisses from the corner of Troy's mouth to his ear, and the teeth of his adorable overbite graze Troy's earlobe, everything feels so _amazing_ , so much better than he could have anticipated, Troy doesn't want it to ever end.

Ryan _is_ a great kisser.

He's a _phenomenal_ kisser.

Troy presses his lips to the side of Ryan's neck, gasping softly, and Ryan breaks off. His fair face is flushed, his breath rate just a bit faster than normal.

"Wow," Troy manages breathlessly, unsure whether he's commenting on the kiss, on how _good_ Ryan looks, or both.

"Wow," Ryan agrees.

Troy breaks into a smile first and Ryan amply reciprocates it. Until a knock at the door sends both of them nearly jolting right out of their skins.

"Ryan! I'm getting Chipotle for dinner. Are you and Wonderboy coming, or not?"

"Nice double entendre, Shar," Ryan says under his breath.

Troy fails to bite back the laughter that bubbles up in his throat.

"What was that?" Sharpay demands, failing to mask her audible confusion.

"I said we'll be right out, Shar!" Ryan and Troy look to each other, and at Ryan's nod toward the bedroom door, they get to their feet simultaneously.

Sharpay's brown eyes pass over them suspiciously while the boys exit the room, as if she means to glean what they were doing by penetrating their minds with a stare. Troy doesn't care if his wide, uncontainable smile betrays him. He kissed _Ryan Evans_. He feels like a completely different person than he did at the start of the school year, or even as recently as last week, and it's an _extraordinary_ feeling.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

Sharpay's golden blonde tresses blow freely through the chilly evening air. She speeds down the road, hesitating for what feels like an instant at the stop signs lining the street before carving a turn onto the highway.

"Does she always drive this fast?" Troy leans in to ask Ryan, who is seated beside him in the backseat of Sharpay's Barbie Doll pink convertible.

At first, Sharpay patted the passenger seat, and called Troy's name in a high-pitched, singsongy voice. Catching sight of the former athlete's terror-stricken reaction to this, Ryan quickly jumped into the backseat, turning down his sister's…. _offer_ with, "Sorry, Shar, but I already asked Troy to sit next to me."

"Oh, _did_ you?" Sharpay prompted, her lips pursing and the look that she shot her brother seeming to pierce right through to his core.

"Yes he did, and I already agreed," Troy chipped in. Before Sharpay could get in another word in protest, Troy easily dropped down into the seat beside Ryan.

"I feel like I'm watching an episode of _The Secret Life of the American Golden Boy_ ," Sharpay quipped, her inflection sitting somewhere on the border of irritation and intrigue. She shifted the gear into drive and didn't say anything else on the subject, however.

"Thanks for the save," Troy relayed quietly to Ryan.

"Thank _you_ ," Ryan replied, gently squeezing the ends of Troy's fingers.

Troy wasn't sure why Ryan was thanking him, for a moment, then it just _clicked_. He's the only boy who has ever been willing to make it clear that he prefers Ryan to Sharpay. He's the only boy that has ever been attracted to _Ryan_ instead of Sharpay. That _loves_ Ryan… and that Ryan loves, too.

Both boys have their seat belts fastened and tightly secured, and every so often, Ryan clutches at his hat, to ensure that it won't come flying off of his head. "You sort of get used to it," he murmurs in response.

_Sort of?_ Troy echoes mentally. Again, he must have pulled a face, or something, because Ryan reaches out and places his hand on Troy's thigh comfortingly. Troy flashes him a grateful smile, his anxiety that they're going to wind up rear-ending another vehicle lessened significantly.

"So, how is the choreography coming along, Troy?" Sharpay pipes up.

"Great. We're, uh, really making progress." Troy smiles. It's not a lie, per se, but, truthfully, dancing in the show would be a whole hell of a lot easier if _Ryan_ was his partner, instead of the girl addressing him.

"Super."

Something in Sharpay's voice causes Troy to look to Ryan, hoping for a dismissive gesture, or a reassuring smile to assuage his confusion, which is quickly becoming a close relative of anxiety.

But, Ryan meets Troy's eyes and reflects his bewilderment back at him.

 "I mean," Sharpay amends, her voice adopting that sugary-sweetness that makes Troy's skin prickle as she looks at the two boys through her dashboard mirror, "we all want it to be a _fair_ competition when the scouts from Juilliard see the show, don't we?"

Ryan arcs an eyebrow at his sister, as if trying to read her.

But, Sharpay continues, undeterred, "It's just such a _shame_ that there's only _one_ scholarship, and _four_ applicants from our drama department."

Sharpay, Ryan, Kelsi, Troy. There's an odd-man out, there; one who definitely doesn't deserve that scholarship, and isn't talented enough to get it.

Troy looks to Ryan, who is, without a doubt, a shoo-in for the scholarship, and his heart begins to ache. He swallows, his urge to sweep Ryan into his arms and never let him go causing the gears in his head to begin turning rapidly. If he's going to be with Ryan, _stay_ with him, he has to figure out some way to make sure that he can be right there in New York with him.

As Troy considers his options, he hardly hears Sharpay asking, "Troy, do you want a burrito or a bowl?"

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

They're sitting in Ryan's room. Sharpay started texting back and forth with Zeke and quickly abandoned the two boys, retreating into her own quarters. "About the Juilliard thing…" Troy begins, carefully picking up his chicken burrito to take a bite out of it. That task is not quite as easy as it sounds, given the wide circumference of the damn thing.

"Yeah?" Ryan asks, waiting until he's swallowed his mouthful from his vegetarian bowl to speak. As etiquette demands, Troy supposes.

"Do you…" Troy starts, questions his phrasing, then tries again, "You really want to get in, huh?"

Ryan's voice adopts a far-off, dreamy intonation as he replies, "It would be a tremendous opportunity, to attend one of the-if not _the_ most prestigious performing arts university in this country. Just-Just think of all of the talent scouts and Broadway recruiters who must go to that school, surveying the ingenues and up and comers. And, I would be _right there_ , in the heart of it all."

Troy smiles, picturing Ryan outshining fellow hopefuls and becoming the star that he deserves to be. But, the beautiful image of Ryan's skin glowing beneath a spotlight as he basks in the warmth of a standing ovation doesn't detract from the wistful ache at Troy's core.

And, it doesn't seem to do much for Ryan, either. A sadness fills his blue eyes, and the corners of his mouth drop into a frown.

"What is it?" Troy sets his burrito down and moves into Ryan, touching his backside comfortingly. "What did I say, Ry?"

Ryan shakes his head. "You didn't say anything. It's just…" He trails off and Troy can feel tremors wrack his body.

"You can tell me. It's okay," Troy murmurs, encouraging Ryan as Ryan has always encouraged him.

The encouragement works. "New York is on the other side of the country. Away from my family, away from everything I've ever known." Ryan's eyes meet Troy's, and the sorrow and yearning shining in the depths of those sky-colored pools hits Troywith enough force to knock the wind out of him.

"Going away from your family is always kind of scary," Troy says quietly, reflecting on his own anxieties about potentially having to leave his parents behind. "But, you'll adjust, because you're smart, strong, and determined. And, I know that you'll make _tons_ of new friends at Juilliard. Because who could possibly resist _you_?" He gives Ryan a light poke in the ribs, and the ache in his chest lessens when he sees the smile that he adores play on Ryan's lips.

The smile is short-lived, though. "What if… What if I'm not good enough, Troy? I know Juilliard is just one option, but- what if the scouts choose Sharpay, or Kelsi, or…?"

"You _are_ good enough," Troy contends. "That's not even debatable."

Ryan peers at Troy. His eyes teem with incredulity.

"I watched you perform dressed as a giant, sparkly _fish_ , Ry," Troy presses with an encouraging grin as he gives the blond boy a gentle nudge.

Ryan laughs softly, blushing at the mention of his and his sister's… _interesting_ Hawaiian-themed performance they had planned for the talent show at their family's country club. They "treated" Troy, in a manner of speaking, to a private preview of the act, that previous summer.

"I _know_ that you're amazing," Troy goes on, hoping that his sincerity and passion are conveyed through his words and his expression, "and I'm going to be sitting right there in the front row at each and every one of your shows. You'll have to break it to all of those screaming guys and girls that the title of Ryan Evans's Number One Fan has already been taken."

With a shake of his head, a misty-eyed Ryan lovingly brushes Troy's bangs out of his eyes. "A person would have to be _out of their mind_ to leave you."

Troy smiles a bit more bitterly than he means to, and looks away. "Chad said she was 'one step ahead'," he murmurs.

Gently, Ryan turns Troy's face back toward him. "Chad doesn't know what the hell he's talking about."

Troy searches Ryan's eyes. There's that "something else", that went hand in hand with all of the sympathy and understanding. He can now give that "something", that makes his chest feel heavy, but not in an unpleasant way, a name. As Ryan smiles to cement that name, happiness fizzes in Troy's chest.

Ryan drags his thumb down Troy's face caressingly. "I wish there was more than one scholarship, so it could be you and me who win them."

Troy feels his breath hitch. Him and Ryan. In New York. _Together_. "Me too," he agrees, quiet but emphatic.

Then, the huge burrito sitting on Troy's Chipotle wrapper catches Ryan's eye. "L-Let me get you a bowl for that."

"Please… Thank you…" Troy breathes.

Ryan doesn't move to get that bowl, however. And, Troy isn't moving, either. Their eyes meet, once more. Those entrancing sky blue pools set in Ryan's lovely face brim with that longing that Troy can't refuse, anymore. Simultaneously, both of them lean in and bring their mouths together. Troy wraps his arms around the smaller boy's waist, and lets himself drift away as his world becomes Ryan… Ryan's sweet scent of strawberries mingled with spring water… the warm taste of Ryan's mouth… _Ryan_.

Eventually, Ryan does get a bowl for Troy's burrito, and both boys heat their food back up. Due to it getting cold.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

After dinner, they cover the vocabulary for their upcoming exam in AP English, reviewing the definitions of terms such as anaphora, caesura, euphony, metonymy and sibilance. Troy is exceedingly grateful for the assistance. Gabriella was never very willing to help him study- she wanted to talk about her problems, or get a ride to her best friend Taylor's, or go out to dinner, instead- but she certainly had no short supply of criticism to heap on if his grades weren't up to par.

Ryan closes his English folder and stretches. "I think that about covers it."

"I feel really confident about this vocabulary," Troy says, looking over the list of terms one more time before slipping the sheet of paper into his folder and stowing the folder in his book bag.

"Yeah?" Ryan asks.

"Yeah," Troy affirms with a smile. "Thanks, Ry."

Ryan ducks his head and smiles softly. "Hey. I couldn't just let my partner fail, could I?"

"Ryan, darling little brother, I'm going to sleep," Sharpay calls saccharinely from the other side of the door. "I hope that it won't be a problem for the two of you to keep things quiet."

Troy and Ryan catch each other's eyes. Their wide-eyed, stunned expressions mirror each other.

Sharpay takes it upon herself to break the silence that then descends on the house. "Perfect. Toodles!" She chirps happily. The sound of her footsteps dwindles off as she heads back down the hall.

The boys wait until her door closes before speaking again.

"Would you like to watch a movie?" Ryan offers.

"Sure," Troy replies.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

Fifteen or so minutes into Disney's _Aladdin_ , while Jafar mesmerizes the Sultan into doing his bidding, Ryan looks to Troy. "In free period, a while back, Ms. D asked all of us about our plans for the future." He seems to consider his wording very carefully. "You were… kind of at a loss, huh?"

"I still am," Troy says in a small voice.

Ryan searches Troy's face, his eyes darkened with concern and his brows knitting. "Troy…"

"I just- I haven't got everything figured out, yet," Troy admits. Getting it all off of his chest and out there in the open is like taking in a breath of fresh air. But, the gravity of his circumstances doesn't escape him. "Chad's going to go pro with basketball and get into the NBA. Gabriella is majoring in Pre-Law at Stanford. Taylor wants to be the president. Zeke's going to college for culinary arts, Jason is planning on finding work, after high school." He pauses, then adds half as a joke and half because he's sincerely concerned for his somewhat ditzy friend's future, "You know, _if_ he graduates." Scratching at the back of his neck in frustration as the feeling of being caught in a downward spiral, or hopelessly lost in a maze with no clear exit, swarms him, Troy goes on, "Martha's headed to a university to study music and dance. You, Sharpay, and Kelsi are all going to be famous. And… I have no idea what I'm doing."

"You know what? That's okay," Ryan murmurs soothingly.

It's "okay" to draw a blank on what his plans for his future are? The completely foreign notion causes Troy to gape for a moment, completely dumbstruck.

"You're young, _incredibly_ attractive--" Troy lets out a modest laugh at that, causing Ryan to smile as he resumes, "intelligent, and versatile." He scoots in and touches his head to Troy's shoulder. Troy smiles softly, at both the touch, and Ryan's sincere bolstering of his self-confidence. "Once you cross that stage at graduation, an entire _world_ of opportunities is gonna open up for you." Ryan gesticulates grandly as he speaks. His eyes glow with his certainty in what he's saying. "And, because you're _you_ , Troy, when you're ready, you're going to seize whichever one of those opportunities is the best for you and take the world by storm, right?"

_The best for you._ Not what's best for Chad, his dad, the Wildcats, or Gabriella. What's best for _Troy_. And, when _he's ready_. Not when someone else demands it. Well…

"Yes I am," Troy answers promptly, _confidently_ , for the first time in a long time. A grin tugs at his lips. "But…" He leans down, brushing his forehead against Ryan's. He hesitates for a second or so, not wanting to be a burden to his dearest friend, then does what his heart requires of him and forges ahead. "I wouldn't mind tagging along with you for awhile." After a very slight pause, he adds, somewhat bashfully, "If that's all right."

"It's more than 'all right'," Ryan says, his voice shaky with the intensity of the happiness that floods his features.

When the movie's eponymous hero, Aladdin, and the princess, Jasmine, share scenes together, Troy and Ryan cuddle close to each other. Troy can't recall the last time he felt so content and panic-free.

 

_A whole new world,_

_A dazzling place I never knew_

_But, when I'm way up here_

_It's crystal clear_

_That now I'm in_

_A whole new world with you_ , he can't help but sing softly as he looks at the misty-eyes and loving face of the person responsible for showing him this "whole new world".

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

_He's racing down the court, dribbling the ball as he goes. His eyes scan left and right, searching for an opening._

_Around him, the buzzing of the crowd crescendoes, and the word that they're all chanting over and over becomes audible: "Bolton! Bolton! Bolton!"_

_The sound washes over Troy, sending adrenaline coursing through his veins and ringing with a dizzying sort of glee in his ears. He has to do this. He_ has _to make this basket. Give the people what they want. He takes up the dunking stance- arms raised, feet planted…. and then a weight crashes into him. Troy hits the ground_ hard _, the impact knocking the wind right out of him. Wheezing, he scrambles upright and makes to retrieve the ball. But, he can only watch, dumbfounded, as the orange and black striped sphere rolls out of his reach and into a half of the gymnasium that is shrouded in darkness._

_"What?" Troy blinks, perplexed._

_Suddenly, the crowd's favor shifts. At once, they get to their feet, their previously supportive, hopeful expressions contorted into ugly, mocking scowls and looks of soul-crushing disappointment. "Boo!" They holler, stomping their feet against the bleachers. "Boo!"_

_This sound also resonates. This time, however, it rings in Troy's ears with a  sickening feeling of shame and apprehension._

_"Get up," Troy pleads with himself. "Come on,_ get up _!" It's useless. His legs, which are clad in blue jeans instead of his red uniform shorts, are rubbery and refuse to cooperate._

_"Need some help there, man?" A tenor-baritone pitch asks. There's a sneer laced in those words, but it's the voice, itself, that strikes a nerve deep in Troy's chest._

_His heart and breath rates picking up, Troy watches a figure emerge from the darkened half of the gym. He takes in tanned legs that undeniably belong to a male, red basketball shorts, and an unmistakable Wildcats jersey. When he discerns the number emblazoned on the jersey, his stomach drops._

Fourteen. _Troy's own number. Printed crystal clear in a nearly blindingly bright white across the other boy's chest._

_"Huh? How can that…?" Troy gasps, bewildered._

_The other boy steps fully into Troy's view, revealing that he also has shaggy, side-swept brunette hair, defined cheek bones, and blue eyes framed by long black eyelashes… It registers that his face is the exact same face that greets Troy in the mirror everyday._

_But, that's not possible,_ right _?_

_Wordlessly, a confident smirk on his lips, the Other Troy strides across the gym and fires a three point shot, as if it's the simplest task in the world._

_The gymnasium shakes as the crowd roars with pride. Buzzers go off, announcing the Other Troy's victory. People swarm to him. Troy sees his father clapping the Other Troy on the back. "That's my boy!" He proclaims, beaming._

_"No, dad. Th-That's not…!" Troy tries, his chest tightening. "_ I'm _-"_

_"I knew you wouldn't let us down, Captain," Chad says. He playfully jostles the Other Troy._

_"Congrats, Wildcat!" Gabriella arches up on her toes to peck the Other Troy on the cheek._

_Troy feels his heart begin sinking. "Guys, that's_ not _Troy!_ I'm _Troy!"_

_Kelsi, Martha, Zeke, and Jason join in the celebration, all of them cheering. Cheering for the Other Troy. Even Jimmie is there, gushing excitedly over his idol's victory._

_Regaining some use of his limbs, Troy staggers to his feet- just in time to see the one person that he absolutely didn't want to see move in to the Other Troy's circle._

_"_ Ryan _!" Troy cries out._

_His voice goes unheard. Ryan doesn't even throw a glance his way._

_"Hey there, handsome," Ryan greets the Other Troy with a flirtatious smirk and wiggle of his hips._

_Troy races forward, to intercept him, to catch him, but he's moving far too slowly. He can't catch up. He can't make it. He watches helplessly, heart shattering to pieces, as the Other Troy sweeps Ryan into his arms. He presses his sculpted chest to Ryan's and kisses the smaller boy deeply, plunging his tongue into his mouth._

_Troy's stomach drops right out of him. He feels hollow. Empty. If even_ Ryan _has forgotten about him…_

_The ground lurches beneath Troy's feet, and he's suddenly falling. He doesn't flail desperately, though. No. Instead, he succumbs to his fate. More than half of him expresses a silent hope that the impact with the ground waiting however many miles below will_ kill _him. That his ribs will be smashed and broken, his organs impaled, and the life will be crushed right out of his fragile, fleshy shell._

No one will miss me, anyway _, he reflects despondently._ I'm **worthless.** Replaceable.

_He lands on a darkened stage- still alive and intact._

_Unfortunately._

_Gaining his bearings, Troy looks around. He's alone. Alone, because he's not good enough for anyone. And, that's how he's going to stay forever._

_All of a sudden, a spotlight flicks on overhead. Troy squints into the intense white glow. The Other Troy steps forward from upstage, emerging out of the flare. His blue eyes cold, calculating, he grins. "Alone again, huh? Guess we really_ aren't _, 'all in this together', are we?"_

_Troy doesn't answer. He can't find the words to begin to. The number fourteen proudly emblazoned on the Other Troy's jersey derides him._

He's _East High's superstar. The object of everyone's adoration._

_And, Troy is just…_ Troy.

_Reaching out, the Other Troy seizes the ends of Troy's black t-shirt and rips it off of him, the fabric tearing loudly. "You know, no one likes an awkward virgin,_ Wildcat _," he tells him harshly. "That's why you can't hold down a relationship."_

_"Stop!" Troy cries out. His will to fight has returned, but he can't even move his arms over his torso to cover his now bare chest. He's been rendered utterly immobile._

_"No one likes a selfish pussy, or a coward,_ Captain _!" The Other Troy snarls, his eyes flashing brown, gray, and then a penetrating clear blue. He grabs hold of Troy's pants. "That's what all of your friends call you behind your back," he says easily, no traces of dishonesty anywhere in his voice. With each word, he pulls Troy's jeans lower, lower. "They're calling you selfish. A wimp. A_ coward _."_

_Troy trembles and terror clutches his chest. "_ Knock it off _!" He yells, his voice wracked with tremors. But, doubt pervades, swallowing his denial. Could the Other Troy be_ right _? His friends_ do _seem to get angry and disappointed with him far too frequently, after all._

_Still, does he really deserve to endure_ this _?_

_"Please…!" He all but begs._

_The Other Troy leans in. For a brief moment, his eyes betray something like sympathy. He appears almost apologetic, and Troy's heart misses a beat. Then, the Other Troy rips Troy's jeans completely off, leaving him standing there in his boxers. Vulnerable. Laid bare. The Other Troy closes the remaining distance between them, his lips brushing against Troy's ear. Troy shivers at the contact. He can feel the Other Troy's hands resting on the waistband of his boxers. The unspoken promise to remove_ them _next, leaving him entirely exposed, weighs heavily on the air._

_"I'm sorry, Troy. But, nobody loves a_ loser _."_

_Troy feels cool air hit the area above his groin as the Other Troy dips his fingers in and down, past the elastic. He's unable to stop himself from whimpering with apprehension. Like the pussy and coward that he is._

_Suddenly, something sharp pierces his spine, right between his shoulder blades. Troy can only gasp as a powerful, stabbing pain engulfs his body. Then,_ nothing _. He can't feel anything below his chest, which is aching sharply with panic. Fingernails, or maybe they're knives, dig into the flesh on his neck, and with one powerful movement, the skin is sliced right open. A salty, tangy scent overpowers Troy's nostrils, and the taste of his own blood fills his mouth._

_The Other Troy holds Troy upright almost tenderly. "Ohh, Troy. You fucked up, again. Just like you always do," he murmurs sadly, pityingly, shaking his head before withdrawing._

_Troy watches the Other Troy's retreat until his vision swims, blurs, and the world turns red._

_"Troy!" A voice calls from somewhere in the distance._

_Troy tries to reply, but his voice is_ gone. Just like… _His body buckles, his legs crumpling under his weight, and he topples forward._

" _Troy!" The same voice, which Troy vaguely recognizes, calls again. It quavers with a note of panic._

I'm sorry _, Troy thinks with what remains of his cognitive abilities._ But, I'm…

"Troy!"

The intensity of the anguish in the voice brings Troy jolting back into consciousness. His eyes stretching wide, he lets out a gasp. He struggles to get his vision to adjust to the darkness of the room so he can ascertain where he is.

"Troy? Are you all right?" The voice, a soft alto-tenor laden with concern, is _Ryan's_. _Ryan's_ hands grope for and manage to locate Troy's face. "What's wrong?"

"Ryan?!" Troy exclaims. His heart is racing, he's still slightly disoriented, and he can't quite believe that Ryan is actually _there_. He forces himself up and reaches for Ryan. He needs to touch him. To feel him. To be provided with some affirmation that he isn't paralyzed and bleeding out due to a nasty gash in his throat, and that everyone that matters to him doesn't hate his guts, and hasn't completely abandoned him.

"I'm right here," Ryan says soothingly. His voice, alone, has an immediate calming effect on Troy. He moves in, his arms winding around Troy as he draws his sturdy frame into him. "It's okay. You're okay."

Surfacing fully from his dream, Troy hugs Ryan back tightly. He takes in the sensation of Ryan's soft cheek pressed against his cheek, Ryan's skinny chest against his.

"It was just a bad dream," Ryan consoles him.

"Yeah. A bad dream," Troy repeats, allowing that information to sink in. He's in Ryan's arms. He's _safe_. Troy's heart, which seemed to be hammering against his breastbone, is pacified. The painful speed of his pulse subsides. "I'm sorry I woke you up, Ryan," he whispers.

"It's all right," Ryan replies. Not even a trace of annoyance is present in his inflection. "Do you… do you wanna talk about it?"

The image of another Troy's tongue shoved down an all-too-willing Ryan's throat flashes into Troy's mind. He has to forcibly push away the stomach-churning memory. "No," he answers firmly, swallowing. "A-At least not right now."

"Alright," Ryan replies leniently. He's unwilling to pressure Troy. Just like always. His lips brush against Troy's cheek and jaw bone in a feather light kiss, and he suggests, "Let's go back to sleep, okay?"

Troy nods. He reclines, taking Ryan with him, and settles back into the soft, downy pillows. Already, his eyelids feel heavy, again. "Thanks, Ry," he breathes.

This time, Ryan doesn't question what he did that is deserving of Troy's gratitude, he already _knows_ , and warmth surges into Troy's heart as Ryan says, "Anytime."

The sensation of Ryan's breath coming out in gentle puffs that tickle his neck is tranquilizing. "Comfortable?" Troy asks the petite blond.

"Yes. _Very_ ," Ryan replies, and Troy can feel the smile to accompany that response against the hollow of his throat.

"Good," he says with a smile of his own. Before sleep fully clouds his mind and sends him back off to dreamland, Troy reflects that, for the very first time, he has a warm body in the bed with him. And, that warm body belongs to the person who was always there beside him.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

Troy awakens to find Ryan's room illuminated by rays of sunlight streaming in through a gap in the white chiffon curtains. He stretches and makes a note of the fact that his limbs haven't been stiffened by sleep, like they usually are. As he pulls the covers aside to step out of bed, he thinks of Ryan- neat, organized- and neatly spreads them back out, taking care to smooth any wrinkles. Pausing briefly to check the state of his hair in the mirror and to fix it so that it's not sticking up in a humiliatingly haphazard manner, he takes his first cautious steps out of Ryan's room and peers around the corner.

The sound of voices that he quickly identifies as Sharpay and Ryan's, involved in a mild conversation, leads him to the kitchen.

"How were rehearsals, yesterday? Tiara getting your part down okay?" Ryan prompts, his light alto-tenor tinged with curiosity.

"It's the weirdest thing. She's surprisingly _good_ for a London school girl with no notable acting experience," Sharpay remarks.

"Oh?" Troy arrives at the doorway in time to see Ryan's brows give an inquisitive quirk as he bites into his Special K cereal bar.

Sharpay shrugs and sips from what appears to be a protein shake in a pink plastic cup. "Being in the presence of someone as gifted as me must be a positive influence on her."

Ryan smiles indulgently. "That could be it."

"What about you? Is Troy ready for rehearsals on Monday?"

Troy flinches a bit at the sound of his name. He's not certain that he should be hearing this conversation. Before he can begin retreating, however, he hears:

"Troy is _good_ , Sis. _Better_ than good, even." Ryan's voice is warm, light. He clearly means what he says, and Troy's heart flutters.

"Are you sure?" Sharpay's mouth becomes a judgmental line. "Opening night is in _two weeks_ , Ryan. I don't want our last show at East High to be a disaster because our beloved Primo Boy can't handle one simple maneuver that you and me could have pulled off when we were in the first grade."

Troy's stomach clenches with shame, and his chest swells with indignation at the same time. He's no pro at dancing, not by a long shot, but he's not _that_ bad.

Right?

Or, maybe he is. He needed Gabriella to teach him how to waltz, and everyone in the cast gave him those looks of evaluation, decreeing that he was just a good-for-nothing, useless-

"He has the material _down_ , Shar." A hint of defensiveness creeps into Ryan's inflection and Troy's self-deprecating thoughts dwindle off into non-existence. "Troy and I _both_ know what we're doing. The spring musical will go on without a hitch, okay?"

"Okay." Looking somewhat taken aback, Sharpay lowers her eyes to her drink. "No need to get all bitchy on me."

At that moment, both siblings take notice of their guest.

"Good morning!" Ryan greets Troy cheerfully.

"Morning." A mildly dumbstruck Troy smiles at the blond boy and rubs sheepishly at the back of his neck. Once again, he has a guilt-ridden conscience for listening in when he wasn't supposed to. But, there's a positive feeling accompanying it- a warmth in his heart that has taken form because Ryan Evans _believes in him_.

"Are you hungry? I'll make you an omelet," Ryan offers.

"Sure." Troy nods. "That'd be great."

"Aren't you two all nice and domestic," Sharpay quips, smirking slightly.

The boys glance in her direction for a second before Ryan looks back to Troy. "Um, how would you like it?" He inquires, making his way over to the cupboards to retrieve a skillet.

Not wanting to be useless and leave all of the labor to Ryan, Troy rushes over to the refrigerator. It's a sleek silver model that looks rather high-tech and state of the art, especially compared to the refrigerator with a wooden exterior that he has at home. His reflection is so clear on the shiny metallic doors, it's like looking into a mirror. He opens the refrigerator door and quickly locates the carton of eggs.

"Light and fluffy?" Ryan elaborates in his adorably awkward way. "Do you want any kind of specific seasoning, or…?"

Troy closes the door behind him and catches up with Ryan at the stove. They set the skillet and the egg carton down at the same time. Catching Ryan's eye, Troy leans into him and says honestly, hoping that he'll get the reaction he wants, "I trust the chef's personal preference."

A bashful smile tugs at Ryan's lips. Just like Troy wanted. "Alrighty, then."

Sharpay makes a noise that sits somewhere in the middle of being disgruntled with, and accepting of, this recent development.

Troy lets himself hope rather ardently that it's the latter. He could never forgive himself if he created a lasting rift between the Evans twins. 

Ryan squirts vegetable oil into the skillet and cracks an egg. Troy watches, stomach growling softly, as the yolk and egg white fall into the pan and begin sizzling.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

A film of sweat forms on Troy's skin. The white-t-shirt he's wearing under his button-down sweater sticks to his chest. He makes the decision to remove his sweater, an impediment to his chances of victory, slipping out of the garment and tossing it aside. Licking at his upper lip, Troy's eyes move from where they were fixated intently on the television to screen to Ryan, beside him.

Ryan re-adjusts his hat, unfastens the first two buttons on the collar of his dress shirt, and stretches his neck first to the right, and then the left. He fixes Troy in a heated stare. "You ready for round two?"

"Bring it," Troy answers firmly, his insides jittery with excitement.

Ryan queues up Taio Cruz's "Dynamite", on _Just Dance 3_ . Their eyes on the widescreen LCD television set, the boys try to match their movements to those of the avatars on the screen. Ryan's motions are swift, graceful. They possess an elegance from years of refinement that Troy isn't sure he could ever obtain. Despite Ryan's obvious expertise, however, Troy's agility that he gained from tireless years on the basketball court allows him to hold his own. Much to his astonishment, he and Ryan are actually kind of evenly matched.

Ryan meets Troy's eyes, and they trade grins with each other.

There's no pressure on Troy to meet someone else's demands or expectations. He and Ryan laugh easily, at themselves and at each other, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. For the first time since the early stages of his relationship with Gabriella, Troy Bolton feels like just another regular guy.

A regular guy who just might be Ryan Evans's boyfriend…?

Near the end of the bridge of the song, after a relatively intense face to face dance-off, Troy hears his phone going off. Ryan quickly pauses the game. "Go ahead," he says, nodding in the direction of the ring tone.

With a grateful half-smile, Troy steps away from the TV and picks up his phone. He flips the device open. "Hello?"

"Man, where are you?" Chad Danforth's voice greets him. "You've been completely M.I.A. for the last week."

"I'm sorry. I've just… " Troy stoops to pick up his sweater. All of the sudden feeling rather naked without it, he tugs it on as he resumes, "I've had a lot going on."

Curiosity pulls at Ryan's brows. "Who is it?" He mouths.

"Chad," Troy replies silently. He shrugs the sweater back into place over his torso.

"You know, I heard you were hiding out in the den of the show dogs," Chad continues.

"I'm not exactly 'hiding out'," Troy responds. Something about Chad's tone, and his referring to Ryan and Sharpay as "show dogs", causes discomfort to settle in the pit of Troy's stomach. "Ryan's a great guy. We're hanging out, and I-I'm really enjoying his company."

"Yeah, well, it sounds like you're enjoying it a little _too_ much," Chad quips patronizingly. 

_Here we go_ , Troy reflects, throwing his head back in dismay.

"Look, you can't go getting yourself attached to Evans, right now, because, you and me? We've got _plans_. Remember? _We_ have plans that are _bigger_ than a guy who wears pink pants and sparkling hats."

Troy can feel Ryan's eyes on him, watching him intently. He wonders how much of Chad's end of the conversation is audible to the blond boy. Inhaling to steel himself, Troy tells his best friend, " _You_ have plans, Chad. _You_ have a locker waiting for you at U of A. My future's headed in a different direction."

"What?" Chad exclaims, startled.

Troy refuses to let himself be rattled. He has to say what he needs to say. Do as Ms. Darbus instructed him; _Tap into that reserve of passion and courage._

Regaining his poise, Chad goes on, adopting a reprimanding intonation, "Hold on. Let me get this straight. You spend a day, or so, with Evans, and suddenly you're doing a complete one-eighty on me?

 "This isn't suddenly coming out of nowhere," Troy begins. His voice is low, but not shaky, or uncertain.

Chad is quiet, as if he's contemplating Troy's words... or how to react to them.

Ryan's presence in the room is comforting, and Troy allows himself to draw resolve from it. He speaks directly from his heart. "I'm sick and tired of everyone thinking that they can control my life for me. It's _my_ life, Chad. _I'm_ the one who has to live it. I should be able to make my own choices, and decide where I want to go for myself. Ryan, he… he _gets_ that, in a way that no one else ever has." By the time he's finished, Troy's voice seems to ring in his ears. Chad's end of the line is still silent. Troy can feel his knees trembling and his pulse is racing, but he takes in the proud smile on Ryan's face, the unmistakable love shining in Ryan's eyes, and everything is okay, again.

"So… what?" Chad finally speaks up. "Are you going to just up and move to New York?" The wistful hint to his voice causes Troy to hesitate very briefly.

"I don't know, man. Maybe I will. That's definitely a possibility." Troy shifts his weight and slides his left hand into his pocket. "Ryan and I will come back to visit during the holidays," he goes on, hoping to lessen the tension he's created. When Chad's lack of a response begins to eat at him, he adds, "Taylor's going to Yale, right?"

"Yeah," Chad mutters.

"I'll say 'hi' to her for you, okay?"

Chad lets out a quiet, short laugh and Troy smiles, feeling a pang of relief right in the center of his chest. He knows what that laugh signifies- that things are okay between them. "Just try not to let exposure to the snobs up there turn you into some uppity, 'too-good-for-us-backwater-small-town-folks', big city asshole."

"Will do," Troy promises amiably. Their conversation comes to an end, and he slips his phone back into his pocket.

"How did he take it?" Ryan prompts.

Not moving a muscle to connote a response either way, Troy feigns nonchalance.

Ryan skeptically arcs one of his neatly groomed brows. He can see right through the charade, of course. But, he still lets out a surprised giggle when Troy sweeps him up into his arms and twirls him around ebulliently, unabashedly beaming all the while.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

Having Ryan Evans riding shotgun in his truck is something that Troy muses that he will never quite be used to. There's a certain luster that Ryan possesses that just doesn't quite belong in the interior of a dingy old thing like the rundown pickup that Troy inherited from his dad. Ryan has ridden in Troy's truck, before; once or twice during the school year, when they needed to do research together for an assignment in English, and to a handful of functions for the basketball team.

The blond theater king never considered himself to be part of the team in any official sense, with him merely being the mascot. But, as the captain, Troy made a point to ensure that _everyone_ , from Ryan, to Jimmie Zara's best friend, Donny Deon, the team water boy, was included in all team get togethers.

Troy had his own experience with being left out and estranged from the rest of his teammates. As the first sophomore in the school's history to make starting varsity, who also happened to be the coach's son, he wasn't exactly greeted with open arms by the senior members of the team. It didn't help matters, either, that his scrawny physique made him the target of mockery and harassment in the locker room. Plenty of insults, such as "daddy's boy", and a certain "F" word, were lobbed at him, at practice, along with precision strikes with basketballs that often resulted in bruises or a stream of blood gushing from his nose.

He just didn't measure up. He was sloppy. Unworthy. So, he forced himself to look the part of the first sophomore to make starting varsity. He pushed himself to be worthy of the eventual title of team captain.

His biceps and taut abdominal muscles didn't just miraculously spring up overnight, after all.

Kelsi being disregarded and intimidated by Sharpay, Ryan receiving threats from Chad and getting pushed around by Sharpay, and the rest of Troy's teammates subjecting Ryan and Jimmie to the same dismissive treatment that he was on the receiving end of as a scrawny, wide-eyed sophomore, was something that Troy _refused_ to tolerate. Bullying, in general, was something that he couldn't stand. Perhaps that was why he extended his friendship to Kelsi, why Ryan earned his intense respect and admiration, and why he was willing to entrust Jimmie with making the winning basket in his final game at East High.

Everyone deserves a chance. Troy has always operated under that philosophy. He's even more than willing to offer second chances, like acting civilly to Sharpay, despite the less than acceptable way that she treated his friends over summer vacation.

But, _fourth_ chances?

Troy told Ryan about Gabriella's phone call, the other night. He didn't want this relationship to be founded on withheld information and secrecy. He talked about how it was the call that Gabriella made after both breaking up with him and outright refusing to answer his desperate attempts to patch things up with her.

Ryan was visibly irritated at the news that Gabriella had attempted to contact Troy, and fumed, "The _nerve_ of that little…! She's playing mind games with you!"

Troy informed Ryan that _he_ was the one ignoring _her_ , for once. "Well, she's already lost," he declared. "Because I threw in the towel the moment you were there for me and she wasn't, anymore."

 Ryan had planted a kiss on Troy's lips and, placing a tender hand on his cheek, relayed softly, seriously, "You know, it takes a brilliant mind to realize when a game is no longer worth playing."

"So, I'm 'brilliant', huh?" Troy asked playfully, a light, modest flush creeping into his cheeks. No one had ever praised his intellect, before. Aside from Ryan, of course.

"Like the sun," Ryan replied, his nose crinkling with delight as he touched the end of it to Troy's.

As Troy steers his ramshackle pickup aimlessly, the dissonantly upbeat chords of a piano intro to a pop song pour out of the vehicle's stereo, ejecting him from the memory and into the present. Ryan suddenly sits at attention beside him, his eyes lighting up. "I love this song!"

It's "Scar", by Missy Higgins, a song that Troy has heard on the radio at least a couple of times. Admittedly, he's kind of partial to it, as well. He smiles, taking his eyes off the road only long enough to get a glimpse of the irresistible smile on his boyfriend's face.

Yeah.

Ryan is his _boyfriend_.

Ryan begins to sing along, just like he did that Friday in their private rehearsals, where the auditorium was reserved just for them. His voice is light, brimming with all of the ardor of a natural performer and a person who feels the emotional resonance of the words fueling the song in the very depths of their being. And, like before, the lyrics and the passion imbued in Ryan's singing strike a cord within Troy.

 

_He left a card, a bar of soap,_

_And a scrubbing brush next to a note_

_That said, "Use these_

_Down to your bones."_

 

_And, before I knew it_

_I had shiny skin,_

_And I felt easy being clean like him_

_I thought, 'This one knows better than I do.'_

 

_A triangle tryin' to squeeze through a circle_

_He tried to cut me so I'd fit_

 

Looking to Troy, Ryan catches his eye and coaxes him, inspires him to join in. Troy does so with minimal hesitation. Singing this song with Ryan simply feels _right_. He finds himself experiencing that unburdening feeling that so naturally accompanies his interactions with the blond boy, and catches himself treasuring the way his and Ryan's voices seamlessly intertwine.

 

_And, doesn't that sound familiar?_

_Doesn't that hit too close to home?_

_Doesn't that make you shiver,_

_The way things could have gone?_

 

_And, doesn't it feel peculiar,_

_When everyone wants a little more?_

_So that I do remember to never go that far,_

_Could you leave me with a scar?_

 

Troy reads the name of the oncoming ramp and turns onto it, heading past the outskirts of Albuquerque and toward the desert regions of New Mexico. As much as he tries to ward them off, the second verse inevitably evokes images of Gabriella. How she lured Troy into a false sense of security with her liquid brown eyes, innocent smiles, virtuous demeanor, and her sugary-sweet girlish voice. How she always insisted that she knew what was best for the both of them, and that Troy's thoughts and feelings were of little to no importance. How, due to her intellect and how much she meant to him, she was able to persuade Troy that such was the truth. That _he_ was always at fault and _she_ was the victim in any situation.

And, how, by doing so, she ultimately eroded Troy's sense of self. 

If the expression that Ryan currently wears is anything to go by, the lyrics have also conjured up memories of someone who similarly affected him. Troy's heart wrenches painfully at the very thought of someone hurting Ryan- _Ryan_ who has been his savior throughout all of this.

 

_So, the next one came with a bag of treats_

_She smelled like sugar_

_and spoke like the sea_

_And she told me, "Don't trust them, trust me."_

 

_Then she pulled at my stitches_

_One by one,_

_Looked at my insides, clicking her tongue_

_And said, "This will all have to come undone"._

 

_A triangle tryin' to squeeze through a circle_

_She tried to blunt me so I'd fit_

 

Troy's throat constricts on "blunt me", causing his voice to tremble and crack audibly. He can't help it. As badly as he longs to put Gabriella behind him, she cut him _deep_. Tears prick at his eyes, as well, and that's also entirely involuntary. As he takes a hand off of the steering wheel to wipe at his eyes, he feels Ryan's hand on his thigh. The brush of Ryan's fingers, alone, lessens Troy's heartache. Ryan gives his thigh a comforting squeeze, and Troy's tears dry up completely.

Contrition, bitterness, and displeasure are detectable in Ryan's voice as the pair resumes with the chorus. Troy knows exactly what and _who_ to blame for the souring of Ryan's mood.

And, for once, it's not _him_ who is at fault.

 

_And, doesn't that sound familiar?_

_Doesn't that hit too close to home?_

_Doesn't that make you shiver,_

_The way things could have gone?_

 

_And, doesn't it feel peculiar_

_When everyone wants a little more?_

_So that I do remember to never go that far,_

_Could you leave me with a scar?_

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

"She broke up with you?" Kelsi inquires, her blue-green eyes wide with incredulity behind the lenses of her glasses.

"Yeah," Troy murmurs his affirmation, his eyes falling to the legs of his jeans. All three of them, Troy, Ryan, and Kelsi, are seated on the girl's bed in her ivory and cream-colored room. Various music notes and clefs decorate the walls, and stack upon stack of sheet music litters the floor and covers the desk near the far wall.

"Troy, I… I'm so sorry." The petite brunette girl reaches out to lay a hand on Troy's shoulder at the same time that Ryan begins soothingly rubbing at the former athlete's back. "I had no idea. I just… I thought…" Seemingly unable to find the right words to communicate how she feels, Kelsi clams up.

"It's all right, Kels," Troy assures her softly, his gaze flicking to her. "I guess Gabriella and I just weren't as "meant to be", as we believed we were." He catches Ryan's eye and sees a mixture of sympathy, and something that he can't quite place a name on, flash in the depths of those sky-colored orbs.

A bit of the color leaves Kelsi's face. "It looks like Sharpay got exactly what she wanted," she mutters wistfully. Looking downcast, she sets her folder of sheet music for the school musical aside.

Now that Troy thinks about it, Sharpay _did_ seem eager to get Gabriella out of the way when she informed him that Gabriella had been accepted into Stanford's Freshman Honors program, purposefully tacking on, _"Since the only thing possibly holding her back would be…_ you _."_ It's almost like she was trying to guilt him into encouraging Gabriella to leave East High. Troy swallows and tries to block out the way his stomach churns and his heart gives a painful lurch at the memory.

"Well… not quite," Ryan says. He takes Troy's hand and gently squeezes the ends of the taller boy's fingers. With a glance at Troy that lasts long enough for the him to see the sincerity glowing in Ryan's eyes, Ryan states conclusively, "Troy is still our _star_. Whether Gabriella is here, or not, that's not going to change."

"Yeah." A smile quirks the ends of Kelsi's lips. "You're right." She reaches out and grabs hold of Troy's other hand. "We still have you, Troy," she says, her eyes sparkling.

Immediately, Troy flashes back to that day that seems like forever ago, when Ryan took him aside during rehearsals. _"You're our star,"_ Ryan had said while giving him a soft, affectionate nudge. _"The show can't go on without you"._ Just _Troy_ isn't replaceable or useless, after all. "Hey. I couldn't let you guys down, now, could I?" Troy smiles at both of them. He can't help but feel like this would be a good place to stay; nestled snug between Ryan and Kelsi on the tiny composer's bed. Surrounded by people he loves who love him, in return… and who actually understand him better than he ever realized.

Softly, the three of them sing the bridge of "Scar", together. For some reason, be it the lyrics, themselves, or the company, all of them seem to draw some kind of resolve from the song. Kelsi blushes bright pink and tries to avert her eyes every time she happens to make eye contact with one of the boys, but she can't hide from Troy's encouraging smiles and nudges, or from the effects of Ryan's contagious passion for his craft.

 

_I realized, just in time_

_Although my old self was hard to find,_

_You can bathe me in your finest wine,_

_But I'll never give you min_ e

 

_'Cause I'm a little bit tired of fearing that I'll_

_Be the bad fruit nobody buys_

 

_Tell me did you think we'd all dream the same?_

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

They share Ryan's bed, again, that night. Although they start out at about one a.m. with a few inches between them, Troy reaches out, craving physical intimacy, and his arms find their way around Ryan. He snuggles in close, pressing against the smaller boy's back. _It's a perfect fit_ , he can't help but notice. He just dares to have a sliver of hope that he isn't crossing any boundaries. This early on in his previous relationship, he never even would have imagined cuddling with Gabriella like this.

His heart gives a relieved pang, dismissing any thoughts of his ex-girlfriend, however, when Ryan cuddles contentedly into the embrace.

"You're _warm_ , Troy. It's really… really _nice_ ," Ryan says quietly, peacefully.

Troy isn't sure how to respond, but he likes the sound of those words, all the same.

With a soft sigh, Ryan dozes back off. Troy soon follows suite.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

_"Troy! Ohhh! …Troy!" Ryan exclaims, his voice heightened with pleasure. He clings to Troy, the pads of his fingers pressing hard into the brunet former basketball player's shoulder blades._

_"Ryan…!" Troy gasps out. He thrusts into the beautiful boy underneath him, passionate desire driving each desperate motion of his pelvis. His breathing is short, rapid. It's perfectly in-synch with Ryan's. Troy seems to hit some sort of sweet spot within Ryan, and Ryan reacts by emitting a keening sound and pulling Troy down, into him, until their chests touch._

_Nothing has ever felt as good as this; the crowd cheering for him at basketball games, singing with Gabriella, his first kiss. This is_ amazing _, it's incomparable. Troy can't get enough, and his need for this to go on, to never end, pings on every nerve with a white hot intensity. He thrusts again, into Ryan's warmth and heat, and it's so_ good _. So… fucking…_ ! _Troy lets out a moan, and_ suddenly rouses.

It takes a moment to shake off the initial disorientation, but he very swiftly picks up on the situation. His arms are around someone. Ryan. He's laying in bed with Ryan. He's grinding up against… " _Ryan_ …?! Shit!"

Ryan lies rigid, inert. As if he's not sure how to react.

Troy interprets that lack of a physical response as a sign that he has crossed a line that he shouldn't have even been standing on this prematurely in their newly-romantic relationship. Immediately, he forces his still sleep-heavy limbs into motion and begins scrambling away. "I'm sorry. Fuck, Ryan. I'm _so_ sorry," he gets out. His cheeks burn with shame, and he can't believe how _hard_ he is. How could he have allowed himself to do that? He's _stupid_. He's so…!

"Troy, it's okay."

Troy freezes, his mind and heart racing with confusion as his cock throbs in his boxers. "Huh?" He exclaims a bit too loudly, and feels even more like an idiot.

Ryan reaches out and takes hold of Troy's arms, gently guiding him back down onto the mattress. "Shh, it's all right. I promise, it's really, _really_ okay," he reassures the former athlete, his voice thick, velvety, and, despite doing nothing to help the situation in Troy's pants, it still eases his nerves.

"'Really'…" Troy echoes vaguely. Then, something clicks at the forefront of his brain, and he gets it. "Oh. _Ohh_."

"Yeah," Ryan murmurs in confirmation.

Significantly less upset with himself, Troy swallows his regret and mortification. He settles into his spot, making sure to keep at least a few centimeters between Ryan's hot as all hell ass, and his own dick, which, evidently, has a mind of his own. But, that precaution proves wholly unnecessary, because the next thing he knows, he feels movement as Ryan shifts beside him. Then, he's biting back a moan as Ryan moves in close enough that Troy can almost feel Ryan's skin touching his. Every nerve tingles, Troy is harder than he ever could have thought possible, and he has to fight the urge not to release some form of an expression of the need swelling in his core. _H-Holy shit...!_ His brain exclaims.

"Um, would you… d-do you need some help with that?" Ryan's voice is nearly a whisper. A sensual whisper that Troy feels right at the head of his cock.

Troy can't say no. He couldn't if he tried. And, why would he try? "Yes," he replies, hoping that he doesn't sound desperate. "Yes, _please_ , Ryan." He can just make out Ryan's features in the darkness; blue eyes, fair skin, blond hair, brows furrowing in concentration, mouth quirking with a mixture of uncertainty and excitement. Troy is incredibly glad for what he _can_ see. It's an affirmation that this isn't just a dream that he's going to be rudely awoken from when it gets to the best part. It's an affirmation that Ryan is _there_.

Ryan.

Ohh, _Ryan_ …

A warm hand reaches into Troy's boxers. _Ryan's_ hand. It's timid, considerate, and has only one intention: to make Troy feel good. Better than good, even. It's not at all like the invasive appendage of the Other Troy from his nightmare, and when Ryan's hand comes into contact with Troy's highly-sensitive piece of male equipment, softly brushes against it, closes around it, something inside of Troy erupts.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

"I was thinking we could go out for a game of laser tag, after prom," Martha says as she and Jason stroll down a hallway at East High, hand in hand.

"That sounds cool," Jason replies earnestly.

"Yeah?" Martha asks, suddenly uncharacteristically shy.

"Yeah," Jason affirms. "I think all of your ideas are cool."

Troy leads Ryan past the pair, holding onto his hand as they move at a rapid pace.

"What's the rush?" Ryan asks, not at all annoyed, or impatient. Just sincerely curious.

"I really, _really_ need your help with something." Troy guides Ryan through the hallway, dodging around passersby and carefully turning corners. 

Ryan falls silent. Troy doesn't have to look back to know that Ryan's brow line has hardened with determination to assist him in any way possible.

They enter the East High Library, mindful to keep their voices down. The librarian, Mrs. Falstaff, has a habit of shushing anyone who talks above a reasonable volume. Chad, in particular, seems to be her favorite target for hissing a "Shhhhh", at, with almost uncanny timing.

Troy beckons for Ryan to follow him to one of the computers. He jiggles the mouse on the pad once they're there, getting the computer off of the screensaver, and turns to Ryan, who listens intently. "So, um… colleges. In…" Troy swallows. This is it. The big game changer. And, it's one that he feels _excited_ about. Excited, more than any other emotion that could easily dominate him in this situation. "In New York," he rubs at the back of his neck as the last three words are spoken, hoping to ease the effect they have on his heart and stomach.

That seems to be all that he needs to say. Ryan's eyes light up immediately, with surprise and with happiness, and he drops into the chair at the desk, clicking on the web browser. His fingers rapidly tap the keys once the Google homepage is on the screen, and, at the sight of the numerous options for him, Troy lets out a sigh of relief.

One door has been closed to him forever. But, so many, many more have been opened. Without Ryan, he's not sure he'd have ever gathered the courage to even turn away from the closed door, let alone step over the threshold of another one. Yet… here he is.  His hand coming down on Ryan's shoulder, Troy squeezes it to both encourage Ryan and to steel himself. _Here goes nothing._

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

_Through anything,_

_You can count on me!_

 

The music builds as Troy and Sharpay hold the note out. In the front of the house of the auditorium, Troy meets Ryan's eyes. Ryan beams back at him from backstage, unable to contain his joy and his pride, and Troy takes that as his cue. Flipping his hair back, he sings passionately as he begins making his way up toward Sharpay's position on the makeshift balcony.

 

_All I wanna do_

_Is be with you_

_Be with you_

 

_There's nothin' we can't do_

_Just wanna be with you_

_Only you_

 

Sharpay _still_ isn't Gabriella. She isn't _Ryan_ either. But, Troy is the star of the show, and any actor worth his salt can pretend that he's not- slightly- terrified of his costar.

He and Sharpay go through the routine. When Troy takes her hand and begins guiding her back for the twirl that he messed up time and again with her, but executed flawlessly with Ryan, he catches her briefly breaking character to convey her surprise. "What happened to Mr. Two Left Feet?" She asks curtly, her eyebrows raised in curiosity and brown eyes narrowed skeptically.

"Let's just say your brother is an _awesome_ teacher," Troy replies. Sharpay steps into his arms and they twirl easily. No misplaced footing, no backdrops plummeting toward them. Then, just like that, Troy spins her out. _"See?"_ Ryan's light voice echoes in his mind, his inflection bright and encouraging. _"You've got it."_

Thinking of Ryan causes Troy to look over to stage left, where he finds Ryan bouncing ecstatically in place backstage, his eyes shining. "Yes!" The blond boy mouths, his fist raised in celebration of his boyfriend's small but significant triumph.

Troy can't suppress the smile that plays on his lips. "And, I'm a fast learner," he finishes.

Sharpay follows Troy's line of sight to her brother and then back to the former athlete. A knowing gleam lights her eyes and a smirk quirks up the ends of her mouth. "I _knew_ it," she whispers.

"Hm?" Troy inquires. He doesn't receive clarification immediately. Sharpay crosses back toward him and forcibly leads him through the rest of the song. Thanks to Ryan's encouraging looks and little whispers, Troy is able to keep pace with the self-proclaimed queen of the theater. Together, they bring the number to a finish, Troy posing with Sharpay only inches away, his hands in hers. _Acting_ , he reminds himself in the hopes of easing the churning of his stomach. _I'm_ acting _. It's for the show._ _Ms. D, Kelsi, and Ryan wouldn't actually make me kiss Sharpay, anyway._

A round of applause breaks out. Relief rushes over Troy at an almost sickening pace as he and Sharpay break away to dip into their bows. Kelsi claps enthusiastically at the piano, her blue-green eyes shining. Even Chad slowly brings his hands together in a show of appreciation for the performance, directing a nod of approval at Troy.

"A _remarkable_ improvement, Mr. Bolton! _Truly_ impressive!" Ms. Darbus exclaims. Her voice and grand gesticulations teem with pride.

As Ryan rushes over and sweeps Troy into a hug, whispering, "You're every bit as amazing as I knew you would be", Troy allows a feeling of pride to fill his insides. He _was_ pretty good. He _did_ make an, honestly, fairly monumental improvement. But, he can't give himself all of the credit.

"Thanks to you," he murmurs, returning the embrace wholeheartedly. Ryan is like his oasis, his wonderwall. Troy has no idea what he would do or where he would be without-

"What was it? A hand job? Did you give him oral?" Sharpay's voice cuts in. Simultaneously, Troy and Ryan both jolt sharply. The moment has been effectively ruined.

Sharpay's words were spoken in a low, hushed tone, but Troy still feels his face flare as heat rushes into his cheeks. "What?" He asks, moving away from Ryan only the distance needed to peer wide-eyed at the female Evans twin. His pulse takes off sprinting.

"Oh, don't play coy with me, Troy Bolton," Sharpay embellishes. "I _knew_ the reason you're lodging at my house wasn't entirely wholesome. You and my brother have _totally_ been canoodling. You can't pull the wool over-!"

Ryan slips in between Troy and Sharpay, cutting his sister off mid-sentence and- thankfully- preventing her from stepping any further into Troy, who wasn't sure how much more of the girl's close proximity he could handle. "Sharpay, there's a time and a place to discuss this, and it isn't _here_ and it isn't _now_."

Haughtily, Sharpay casts a look at their surroundings. Sure enough, people have begun whispering and tossing puzzled and more than somewhat suspicious glances at the Evans twins and the Golden Boy. "Fine," she relents, her hand resting on her hip. "After school, then."

"After school," Ryan agrees. Troy glances from Sharpay to Ryan, and nods in agreement.

As Sharpay crosses over to stage left, where Tiara awaits, holding up a Starbucks cup and clutching her giant pink tote bag, Troy murmurs to Ryan, "I'm _really_ not looking forward to 'after school'."

Ryan lets out a concurring sigh. "Me either." He reaches down and takes Troy's hand into his, thumb stroking over the former basketball player's knuckles.  "Guess there really _is_ a first time for everything, though, huh?"

In response, Troy cracks an "ironic" smile. Together, he and Ryan exit stage right and take up places backstage. They ignore the questioning looks, the stares that seem intent on proving that certain suspicions about Troy Bolton and the male half of the Evans siblings were completely founded, all along.

Just Troy no longer cares about upholding 'The Basketball Guy's' reputation, as if it was ever really that important in the first place.

"Now, we shall rehearse Sharpay's solo number," Ms. Darbus announces.

Troy and Ryan stare out expectantly, their gazes resting inquisitively on the two blonde girls. Sharpay pauses in the middle of sipping from her coffee and her eyes light up, as if ready to take her cue. Right when she begins making a motion toward center stage, however, Ms. Darbus calls out, "Tiara, please take center!"

With a glance at Sharpay, who just manages to feign a supportive smile, or maybe it's genuine, Tiara confidently struts to her position, a smirk tugging at her lips. She signals to the band in the orchestra pit, as if she's done this her entire life.

Troy trades a perplexed look with Ryan.

Kelsi and the East High band members snap to attention and watch the blonde sophomore intently.

"One, two, three, go," Tiara states, punctuating her cue with a prompt and commanding snap of her fingers.

"Tiara's good at this," Troy whispers, astonished.

"Almost _too_ good," Ryan murmurs back.

 

_Who's that girl?_

_She's so fine_ , the male backup chorus sings while Tiara strikes over the top flirty poses in a distinctly Sharpay-esque fashion.

 

As she watches from the sidelines, Sharpay's supportive smile slips from her face and begins falling into the makings of a frown.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

With all of the chaos; the school musical, Gabriella's relocation to California, the grieving period, and his relationship with Ryan making the both surprising, and yet, not surprising at all, transition from friends to something more, Troy never had the time to clear out his locker in the locker room.  In all honesty, doing so wasn't anywhere near the top on his list of priorities, but when the bell rings at the end of the day, he figures that he'll spare the custodian one less mess to have to deal with, come the end of the school year.

He sends Ryan a quick text to let him know what he's doing, and they make plans to go out for smoothies after their tell-all confrontation with Sharpay goes down. Ryan proposes getting a strawberry-banana smoothie, Troy proposes sharing it, tacking on a winking face at the end of the text.

His phone buzzes with Ryan's response: **_:D_**

Then, he descends the steps into the locker room and heads to his locker where he dials in the combination, gives the locker door a light punch, and it pops right open.

Folded up inside, there are a few pairs of shorts, tank tops, and sweatpants that are likely in need of a wash. Something that won't be getting dropped into the washing machine any time soon, however, are the socks balled up and shoved into the back corner. A half-smile plays on Troy's lips at the sight of them. His lucky socks. The ones he and his teammates wore for three straight play-off games. He hasn't washed them all season. It's gross, yes, but it's a team tradition, and considering that they won the title of Back-To-Back State Champs, the whole "lucky", thing might just have some merit to it. And, with his run as the team captain having reached the end of its term, it looks like it might be time for a-

"Troy! What is _up_ , man?"

Troy's train of thought veers so sharply, it nearly goes careening off of the rails before the engineer manages to bring it grinding to a halt.

Jimmie. He doesn't even have to turn around to identify the repeated instigator of his heart palpitations. How Jimmie manages to soundlessly materialize wherever he goes escapes Troy. He wants to say something to the kid, like, "If you keep sneaking up on people like that, you're going to put someone in the _hospital_ , one of these days", or, "Cut that shit out, okay? _Jesus_!" But, he can't summon up the kind of fury to lend his words any weight. And, anyway, Jimmie _is_ just a _kid_. If Coach actually does put the scrawny sophomore in the running for team captain, which is a very real possibility- Jimmie's an incredibly earnest and passionate asset to the team, when he actually finds the mindset to settle down and concentrate on the game- the responsibilities that "Rocketman" will find himself saddled with will cause him to grow up, even a little bit.

Exhaling slowly, Troy turns to the younger brunet. "You're here to ask me about my locker, right?"

Jimmie gapes, his mouth hanging open. "Whoa." He shakes his head in awe. "It's like, you and me, we've got a psychic connection going on."

"It's actually more of an educated guess," Troy murmurs, more to himself than the sophomore. Jimmie had outright brought up the idea of Troy's locker being bequeathed to him, earlier in the semester, after the last game of the season. It wasn't exactly a logical leap to arrive at the conclusion that he would inquire about it, again. Troy puts the last pair of shorts and a black sweatband with a white paw print embroidered on it into his gym bag and pulls the drawstrings closed. "It's all yours," he states without looking up.

"Wha…" Jimmie starts, then tries again. "I…! Really?!" His brown eyes are wide, and a smile is on the verge of overtaking his face.

"Yeah." Troy smiles back, warmth trickling into his heart. For all the ways that he manages to be a nuisance, "Rocketman" really isn't a bad kid. And, he _did_ earn it, by all accounts. He handled the hazing- having him and his friend Donny run all over the school clad in nothing but a towel, in pursuit of their clothes- like a champ. Slinging the gym bag over his shoulder, Troy adds, the smile not leaving his face, "Now hurry up and take this before I change my mind." He holds out his hand and offers up a slip of paper that has the digits to his locker combination written on it sitting upright between his index and middle finger.

It takes a second for that information to process, but Jimmie shakes off his momentary daze, dashes over, and snatches up the slip of paper. His eyes are starry as they flit over the numbers. For a few brief seconds, he seems to have been rendered speechless for what's very likely the first time in his life. Then, he lets out a whoop that echoes throughout the confined space, and hollers, "I've got _Troy Bolton's_ locker combo…! This is the _Greatest Day of My Life_!"

Troy has half a mind to quiet the younger brunet for the sake of his ear drums, but he lets that half-hearted desire go with a faintly amused sigh. Jimmie's allowed to celebrate, especially when he sees the surprise gift awaiting him inside of the locker. And, Troy has other things going on, anyway. He turns away from the rejoicing sophomore and makes his way down the hallway toward the stairs, passing the coach's office on the way. As he begins ascending the staircase, a certain, familiar voice that wasn't entirely unexpected, halts him mid-step.

"Troy."

He turns to meet his dad's gray eyes and homesickness promptly pangs in the center of his body. All of the things that he wants to relay to the senior Bolton suddenly rush over him. He wants to let his dad know that he's doing great, that staying at the mansion home of the Evans family was _exactly_ what he needed, that, _You and mom don't have to worry about me, anymore._

"Uh, Darbus says you're doing a great job with that musical," Coach Bolton begins.

Troy shifts the weight of his bag off of his shoulder blade and gives a hesitant nod in acknowledgement of what appears to be a compliment. Bringing up anything other than U of A and basketball has been treading shaky ground with his father, lately, so, he's just a bit anxious about where this conversation is going.

"I just wanted to let you know that your mom and are I gonna be at the show," his dad finishes, his gray eyes warm, affectionate. _Proud_. "And… If you really want to look at a college for theater and all that stuff, we're behind you one-hundred percent."

His heart misses a beat and Troy gives the idea that he might have misheard his dad consideration. Then, he takes in the sincere, earnest smile on his dad's face and feels one working its way across his own visage. No, there's no way he heard that wrong. Things really _are_ working out. Throat constricting as a lump rises up in it, and eyes beginning to mist, Troy manages a soft, "Thanks, dad." He wants to add that he'll be home, soon, that he'll be ready to take his room back and fill it with pictures of his new life and the person he's sharing it with, but his dad is already on his way back to his office.

With a renewed burst of confidence, Troy races up the stairs and to the parking lot, where he'll find Ryan waiting for him beside Sharpay's convertible.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

"Ryan and I are dating," Troy proclaims, his head held high, spine straight, and heart hammering against his breastbone.

"As in _officially_?" Sharpay raises her head, too, seemingly trying to make herself taller. It's an entirely unnecessary intimidation technique- Troy already feels diminished from the searing look of scrutiny the female Evans twin is giving him, on its own.

"Yes," Troy answers, immediately followed by Ryan chipping in with, "It's not exactly like we were trying to be secretive about it."

Sharpay takes a step back, her brow line creasing in contemplation. "So, you and Gabriella are…?"

"Done," Troy answers firmly, certainly. Said aloud, the word has power, faculty. It's as though the mere act of giving that statement a voice has transformed it into a key that perfectly fits the lock on a cage that Troy wasn't fully aware that he was trapped in until he got his first taste of freedom. Freedom in the form of a beautiful blond boy with sky-colored eyes, fair, creamy skin, pink lips, curvy hips, and an adorable overbite, informing him that he had a choice. That he was better than he'd been made to believe he was. That he wasn't just an accessory to Gabriella that needed her to guide him, lest he stray off course.

"What?" Sharpay lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Did she start fooling around with college boys-?"

Whatever else she meant to say is cut off at the knees as Troy interjects with, "No, _I_ found someone better." He pulls Ryan in close to emphasize his words, lend them credence. His hand rests on the outer curve of the petite boy's hip, fingertips lightly brushing against it, and Ryan's arm naturally slips around Troy's back as he draws in so close, his cheek touches Troy's neck.

It's like the final piece to a puzzle has at last slid into place.

Troy can feel tension in the air, and realizes that Ryan is shooting his sister a glare for drudging up that old piece of grape vine speculation. Ryan is _protecting_ him.

The glare appears to be effective. Sharpay backs down and switches gears. "Well," she says in a tone that Troy recognizes as her attempt to be friendly, "this doesn't _look_ like the typical jock going through his bi-curious experimental phase."

"That's because it isn't--" Troy starts, a large part of him ready to spill out that he sure, he was attracted to and felt something for Gabriella, but Ryan does things to him that no one else does, that he might be bisexual, because both guys and girls can turn his head, that okay, maybe he isn't quite sure what label to place on his sexuality just yet, but this _definitely_ isn't a phase.

But, Ryan beats him to the punch. "Shar, you _know_ that Troy wouldn't use someone for any reason, let alone as an experiment for his burgeoning sexual impulses. And," he adds a bit more gently, "you should know that I wouldn't _let_ anyone use me, like that."

The fierce gleam in Sharpay's brown eyes softens to betray a hint of affectionate surprise, and realization claps down on Troy. Sharpay being on the offensive, her insistence on interrogating him whenever he expressed romantic intentions for her brother… it all makes sense, now. Troy feels his heart warm up, just partially, to the female Evans twin, because he understands exactly where she's coming from, for once. He is certain to look her in the eyes as he relays sincerely, solemnly, "Sharpay, Ryan does… He…" Ryan moves in the one-armed embrace, turning to look at him, and the sight of the vulnerability, the _love_ shining in his eyes causes Troy's heart to swell until it presses on his throat, constricting his vocal cords, making the completion of the process that turns thought into speech nearly impossible. "He means more to me than you know," he gets out, his voice tight and eyes watery. "More than I can possibly say. And I would _never_ hurt him."

 Ryan's sky blue eyes mist with tears and a smile spreads across his face. "Troy…!" he says softly, then pulls Troy into an embrace, burying his nose in the crook of his neck.

Troy smiles as he hugs Ryan back. Inside of him, the words, _I love you, Ryan_ , cascade from his heart and thunder with internal resonance as they spill into and begin quickly filling his muscles and other vital organs.

Troy sees Sharpay smile for a second, but then she seems to catch herself. "Alright, that's enough sentimentality for one day."

Ryan and Troy step out of their embrace, but their eyes remain locked on each other. "Troy, you…" Ryan starts. With one hand, he takes Troy's hand into his. His grip is tight, strong, despite the fact that his hand is shaking. He rests his other hand on his chest, deeply affected.

Troy listens intently, his heart in his throat.

"For the longest time, I… I never thought we--"

"Yes, you guys are clearly gaga for each other, are gonna make each other stupidly happy, and your relationship has my approval," Sharpay cuts in.

"Approval". It's more than Troy honestly could have asked for. He doesn't have any time to express his gratitude over this fortuitous turn of events, or speak up about the rudeness of Sharpay interrupting her brother, however, as Sharpay quickly adds, "Now, scootch."

Troy has just enough time to shoot Ryan a perplexed look before the female Evans twin slides a pair of large, pink-rimmed sunglasses up the bridge of her nose and pushes her way between them.

The two boys stare after Sharpay in a mixture of confusion and minor vexation as she strides over to her convertible. She opens the door and drops into the driver's seat, informing them in a loud voice, "I'm going costume shopping before the mall closes. Just because I'm playing Gabriella in the musical, it doesn't mean I have to look I bought my clothes from the Goodwill."

Troy is torn between letting out a vaguely impressed laugh at the jibe at his ex, and feeling a bit of anger on Gabriella's behalf. Ryan, however, is unable to contain a smirk and a short, muffled laugh. It's this, coupled with the recollection of all of the times that Gabriella demeaned Troy's choice of attire, that compels Troy to allow a smile to work its way across his face, and a tiny laugh to escape him. He recalls reading somewhere that laughing about the things that trouble you is cathartic and therapeutic in its own right.

And, just maybe, Gabriella deserves to have some not-exactly-polite things said about her.

When Ryan's hand slips into his own, once more, their fingers entwining, and Ryan fixes him in an intent stare, his neatly groomed eyebrows knitted with faint concern as he asks, "Are you all right, Troy?", Troy can answer him without any trace of dishonesty, "Yeah. Yes I am." Then, he tugs Ryan toward his truck, urging him with a mischievous grin, "If I heard your sister correctly, we have the _whole house_ to ourselves, for a few hours."

Ryan's eyes light up, and he breaks into an anticipatory smile. "Indeed we do." Troy waggling his eyebrows, and every unsaid implication that goes with that gesture, seems to be all the incentive that he needs to race along after the former athlete.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

The first time the 'l' word is uttered, Troy is laying on Ryan's bed, his head cushioned by the familiar downy pillows, heat and electricity surging through his body as Ryan's multi-talented hands make a continual circuit from his chest to his abs, and his own hands preoccupy themselves by squeezing Ryan's butt. He's never touched anyone's ass, before, and certainly not like _this_ , but it's not at all difficult to imagine that Ryan has the greatest ass of anyone ever. Firm, round, luscious… Yeah, luscious sounds about right.

Ryan straddles Troy, his tongue engaging Troy's in a sort of fleshy, pink tango that makes Troy's stomach feel heavy.

Contrary to what _Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World_ engrained in the pop cultural mindset, that 'l' word isn't "lesbians". And, while Troy wouldn't exactly be opposed to the idea of two girls playing tonsil hockey, the opposite sex, in general, is the farthest thing from his mind, at the moment. Everything is Ryan; the denim stretched tight over the contours of Ryan's butt and how that denim feels against the pads of Troy's fingers, the way Ryan's hips are thrusting gently, pressing into the space directly above Troy's groin and driving him crazy with want, _need_ , Ryan's insistent kisses, the sweet, cherry-flavored taste of his lower lip as Troy bites softly at it. As heat surges below his belt and his heart aches with insatiable need for Ryan, Ryan, Ryan, a certain phrase rises up in Troy's throat and comes out of his mouth in the form of a moan: "I love you _so much_."

Ryan pauses, his lips hovering mere centimeters from Troy's. "You…?" He asks, still somewhat dazed. "You…?!" he repeats. He blinks, gives a slight shake of his head to clear out his momentary passion-induced stupor, then trails his fingers down Troy's face, bringing them to a rest under Troy's chin as he moves back enough to peer into the his eyes, searching them intently. He needs to hear it again. He needs elucidation and reassurance. Troy can see it in the way Ryan's brows knit, the piercing anguish- urgency- that darkens his blue eyes into a steely gray, _feel it_ in how Ryan's hands tremble.

Troy reaches up and clasps Ryan's hands in his, hoping to cease the trembling. He stares into Ryan's eyes, his heart in his throat. This isn't his hormones doing the talking for him, and this isn't taking a plunge, either. He knows that he has something, or rather, _someone_ , to break his fall. "I love you, Ryan," he says softly but clearly, allowing no room for misinterpretation. "I _love_ you." 

There is no need to question the veracity of that statement. Troy has known for quite a while, now, that he loves Ryan; the light timbres of his voice, the creamy alabaster of his soft, sweet-smelling skin, his colorful clothes, his many, _many_ hats, the texture of his golden hair, his radiant smile, his quirks, his hips, his wit and his insightfulness. The way Ryan is always there for him…

And, Ryan must be able to see that certainty in Troy's eyes, he must have heard it in the tone of his voice, because his face crumples in a silent sob and he immediately moves back in, hugging Troy tightly and covering his face in kisses. "I love you, too, Troy…! I love you, too…!"

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

Later that evening, they're sitting on the big lawn swing out in the courtyard at the Evans place, sipping from the promised strawberry-banana smoothie as the sun sinks below the horizon, casting fiery hues of pink and orange, and a deep purple across the sky. Ryan waxes poetically about how, "The setting sun's always resembled watercolor paints staining a canvas. At least, that's how I always thought of it."

Troy raises his cellphone and takes a picture of the sky, because the hint of wonder to Ryan's voice as he made that observation dubs the moment worthy of safekeeping. At least, as far as Troy is concerned. The colors in the picture on the screen of the device are diluted, nowhere near as vibrant as the natural orange and pink that are so bright, Troy has to squint to keep them from burning his retinas.

But, Ryan seems to love it, anyway. "Send me a copy of that, please?"

"Sure."  Troy readily complies to the request, then he settles back, his arm finding its way around Ryan's shoulders. Ryan offers him another sip of the smoothie, holding the cup up to the former athlete's mouth. Troy takes the sip and the delicious, thickly churned mixture of strawberry and banana fills his mouth and slides down his throat. As he licks at his top lip to make certain there isn't any deep pink liquid sticking around, it occurs to him that the pose he and Ryan are currently in is similar to their seating arrangements from that day on the rooftop garden, last Friday.

It honestly feels like that took place in another lifetime for all of the ways that everything has changed, since then. Troy's eyes close in contentment, his cheek rests against the brim of Ryan's hat, and his legs gently propel the swing forward and back. Silence descends on the world. And, it too, is the same as the silence that he and Ryan fell into last Friday. Tranquil. Easy. _Everything_ has _changed,_ Troy reflects. _But maybe,_ he adds, taking in how easily, how _perfectly_ he and Ryan fit together, _somethings stay the same._

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a fairly graphic depiction of a potentially upsetting subject matter early on in this part, so, please venture ahead with caution, my dear readers.

**_ Parachute _ **

 

** 3\.  **

 

 "It's okay to be angry at her", Ryan says, putting down Janet Gurtler's _#16thingsithoughtweretrue_ to look at Troy.

 "Hm?" Troy lays on his back on Ryan's bed, the blond lying on his side beside him. As Ryan concentrated on the book, Troy busied himself with playing _Candy Crush_ on Ryan's Iphone. He slides four purple candies together as he murmurs his question, creating the striped combo candy. The game was easy enough to get the hang of, but it's frustrating beyond fucking belief. It doesn't help that the music and sound effects, especially that startlingly deep voice exclaiming, "sweet", and/or "delicious", depending on the combo, are migraine-inducing. Despite it all, though, the stupid game is as addictive as chocolate. Troy has already cleared somewhere around forty levels within a few hours.

 Ryan's mouth twitches, his brows drawing together as he starts again, "It's okay to be angry at Gabriella. For what she did to you."

 Troy's finger freezes in place on the screen.

 Aware of the impact of his words, Ryan shifts upright and and scoots into Troy, his hand coming to rest on the taller boy's chest as his head presses against Troy's left shoulder. "You have a good heart, Troy. You're sweet, altruistic. You have a strong moral compass, and that's one of the reasons why I love you."

 The game immediately slips Troy's mind. He sets the phone down with his right arm and moves his left arm, allowing Ryan to snuggle into him before bringing the limb back down around Ryan's shoulders. As much as he's wary about the topic of this conversation, he's certain that he'll never tire of hearing those three words come out of Ryan's beautiful mouth.

 "But," Ryan resumes softly, "you need to know that it's okay to get upset at someone when they betray you. When they…" He pauses and his voice hardens perceptibly. He lifts his head, and Troy looks down to meet Ryan's eyes. "When they _hurt_ you."

 Troy stares into Ryan's eyes. Nothing but good intentions swim in those sky-colored pools, and Troy gets the feeling that Ryan is speaking from a place of experience. He swallows, heart twisting. "It is?" He just manages to ask. He wishes he could travel back in time and prevent Ryan from ever becoming acquainted with betrayal and heartache. Someone so beautiful doesn't deserve to know what pain feels like.

 "Forgiveness is good, and it's unburdening, but that comes at its own pace. If someone mistreats you, no one in the world should expect you to just grin and bear it. I mean… you're only human, Troy."

 Tears well up in Troy's eyes as if the words, themselves, summoned them. At first, he doesn't speak. He can't locate or form the sounds and syllables he needs to communicate how he feels.

  _I'm… only human. I'm…_

 Ryan's eyes are on him, watching him with solicitude. "Are you okay?" He asks. The regret and worry in his voice might as well be tangible, given how they latch right onto Troy's heart. Ryan needs to know that he hasn't hurt Troy, and Troy proves it to him by hugging the blond tightly to his body.

 His breathing unsteady, Troy's body shudders as a sudden sob overtakes it.

 Ryan jolts, a stream of, "I'm sorry. Troy, I'm _so_ sorry. I-I didn't mean to… I-!", pouring out of him until Troy silences it by pressing his lips to Ryan's forehead in a soft kiss.

 "Thank you," Troy whispers.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 Ryan suggests watching _Me and Orson Welles_ because it's "a very accurate depiction of what being involved in a theatrical production is like".

 Troy reckons that Zac Efron's ridiculously handsome face might be an incentive to put the flick on. You know, along with the whole, "accurate depiction of what being involved in a theatrical production is like", thing.

 As Ryan hefts criticism at Claire Danes's "Sonja with a 'j' that sounds like a 'y'" for not only humoring the romantic advances of a seventeen year-old boy- Zac Efron's Richard Samuels, the protagonist- when she's a twenty-something year-old woman, but also giving said teenage boy alcohol and sleeping with him, Troy laughs in agreement that "yeah, that's kind of screwed up".

 "And you know," Ryan goes on, dismayed, "she's never held accountable for it, by either the narrative, or Richard, himself, just because she's a woman and Richard is blinded by his infatuation for her."

 "Yeah?"

 "Yeah." Ryan bites down on the inside of his mouth. The smile returns to his face, replacing his pained look of exasperation as he adds, "Thankfully, though, she's the only bad part of this movie. Everything else is great."

 Troy finds himself soon agreeing with that statement, as well.

 Richard's first real immersion in the world of theater, although strikingly different, does remind Troy of what it was like for him, learning the ropes of East High's Drama Club. If it wasn't for Ryan's support, he would have spent a good portion of the rehearsals completely lost on where to go and what to do. Learning the difference between stage right, stage left, upstage and downstage would have been _brutal_ without Ryan to ignore Gabriella's giggling and Sharpay's aggrieved groans to timidly step forward and demonstrate in plain English what the stage directions meant.

 As for application of stage makeup… it goes without saying that he's exceedingly grateful that he and Ryan put their rivalry over the lead role behind them immediately after Troy was casted as Arnold, and Ryan as his understudy and Chorus Member Number 4.

 "You're not upset, are you?" Troy remembers asking Ryan one day early on as they stood backstage, awaiting their cues.

 "No." Ryan gave Troy a friendly smile, after first checking all around the area to make sure the question was actually addressed to _him_ , and not, say, some other person who might have materialized just behind him. "I-It's like they say; 'There are no small parts in theater. Just small actors'."

 When Ryan is engrossed in a scene pertaining to the development of a relationship between Richard and Gretta, a girl with aspirations of becoming a writer, a relationship that Troy has to admit is cute, Troy smiles and says, "You were the best chorus member I've ever seen."

 "Really?" Ryan asks. He pauses the movie as Gretta begins talking about the plot of her newest story, and turns away from the screen to give Troy a look of surprise, his eyebrows elevated.

 "Yeah," Troy assures him. It was obvious from miles away that Ryan was too talented to be stuck in the background. He effortlessly outshone every single other member of _Twinkle Towne_ 's chorus, and even, if Troy is honest with himself, the show's leads. "And you really killed it in _Sibling Piracy_."

 Troy would know. He, Zeke, Kelsi, Martha, and a group of Sharpay's admirers were the only members of the East High student body in the audience on opening night. And, on the final night of the show's six day run, the audience only consisted of Troy, Gabriella, Kelsi, and Zeke. Sharpay had been less than impressed by that turnout, until Gabriella paid her performance a compliment, Kelsi offered her a shy but sincere smile, and Zeke produced a bag of cookies that he had brought for her.Ryan was the one who thanked them for coming out to support him and his sister, and Troy distinctly recalls Ryan's gaze lingering on him…

 "Thank you!" Ryan exclaims, a wide smile that reaches his eyes working its way across his face. "Sharpay wasn't fully on-board with the idea of a show centered on singing, pillaging pirate siblings, but I think we managed to pull it off."

 "It was really creative. Not at all cookie cutter." Troy grins and nudges Ryan softly.

 "I'm really glad to hear that you think so." Ryan nudges Troy back even more softly. He stays close to him for the rest of the movie. Troy doesn't remember the exact point when their hands twined together- perhaps during Lucius's lullaby for Brutus, or maybe during a powerful delivery of Shakespeare's text- because Ryan's fingers just fit so naturally into the spaces between Troy's.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 An ugly sound pulls Troy out of his slumber. _Retching_ ; a horrid noise that he's not especially familiar with- that dubious honor goes to crying- but far more acquainted with than he'd like to be, thanks to getting the stomach flu during the summer of his sophomore year, and overhearing his dad puking into the toilet the handful of times Jack Bolton has gone out with his buddies or colleagues and come home drunk.

 Troy sits up, propped up on his outstretched right arm, and his hand comes down on the empty space beside him.

  _Empty space…_ shit. Tossing the blankets aside, exposing his bare chest to the cool air pouring out of the vents, he stumbles to his feet and makes his way out of Ryan's room, toward the source of the gut-churning, pitiful sounds. He hopes that the poor soul regurgitating their dinner isn't his worryingly absent bed partner. Although discovering Sharpay or one of her "gal pals", as Ryan refers to them, hunched over the toilet or sink, wouldn't necessarily be preferable.

 White light streams out from beneath the bathroom door, and the awful sound of bile and food chunks spewing out of someone's mouth is definitelylouder standing just outside the bathroom. Warily, pushing back his urge to flee back into the safety of Ryan's room so it isn't him who has to deal with vomit, not at whatever ungodly hour of the night it is and not while he's half-asleep, Troy knocks softly on the durable wood with his knuckle. "Hello? Um… You okay in there?"

 There's a break in the retching.

 Troy bites down on the inside of his mouth, his own stomach unsettled. Suddenly, he's not so sure that he wants an answer. That he can handle it if it's confirmation of the fear eating at the back of his mind.

 "T… Troy?" A weak, exhausted alto-tenor asks. The voice is muffled by the door, but it's unmistakable.

 Troy's heart lurches. He tries the handle of the door, and is relieved to find that it comes open easily. The sight that greets him is exactly what he feared: Ryan sits there on the polished tile floor, hunched miserably over the marble toilet bowl, his fair skin peaked and tears streaming down his face. "Oh, Ryan… _no_ ," Troy whispers. His legs quake and he kneels down at Ryan's side, wrapping a soothing arm about the petite boy's shoulders. "What…? I-I didn't think there was anything wrong with dinner. Why-why are you…?"

 Ryan lowers his head shamefully. He pulls the lid of the toilet closed to hide the evidence of his deed. "I… I didn't mean to wake you up, Troy. I didn't want you to… to see me like this," he murmurs, his voice shaky.

 "Are you okay?" Troy prompts. He can feel his forehead lining with concern.

 "Yes," Ryan says, almost as if it's a reflex.

 Troy swallows, his heart aching like it's filled with shrapnel. The word, the question, "Why?" batters his brain, and something seems to shift within Ryan like he can sense all of that.

 "No," Ryan corrects himself. "No, I…"

 Troy runs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. He's at a complete loss and wishes he was more awake so he knew the right thing to do, the right thing to say.

 "I ate too much, yesterday," Ryan admits, tremors wracking his voice.

 It occurs to Troy how difficult this is for Ryan- to be vulnerable and to admit to someone, especially the boy he loves, that he's in a position of vulnerability. To lay it all out there in the open and risk rejection from the person who means the world to you is… _terrifying_. So, as much as he dreads the words coming out of Ryan's mouth and what those words mean, Troy doesn't move. He doesn't get up and retreat with his tail between his legs back down the hall to lie down in Ryan's safe, warm bed and pull the covers over his head where he can pretend that this isn't happening. He stays, because he's in it for the long haul, and Ryan needs to know that.

 "So I…" Ryan swallows. "I…" He tries again. "Needed to _purge_ …" When Ryan's voice breaks, Troy draws the smaller boy into his chest, letting him know that he doesn't need to put himself through finishing that thought. 

 " _Jesus Christ_ ," Troy breathes out. He hugs Ryan close to him, uncaring that Ryan's cheeks are damp and his eyelashes are wet as they come into contact with Troy's naked chest. New tears form as Ryan's body trembles, and the tears slip down his face, dripping onto Troy's chest. Troy isn't fazed in the slightest. He vowed to be Ryan's parachute, and right now, Ryan is spiraling toward the ground. It's time to step up to the plate. "Ryan, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you," he says firmly, emphatically. "You're _beautiful_. Okay? You're… _Fuck_." Troy looks down and locks eyes with the blond. "You're so _incredibly_ attractive. Forget what that voice in your head is telling you."

 Ryan stares back, his eyes wide, puffy, and red-rimmed. "You really think I'm beautiful?" He asks.

 " _Yes_ ," Troy says, his heart in his throat. He hopes his eyes are reflecting the sincerity that floods every muscle and bone in his body. "You're one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen."

 A sad smile tugs at Ryan's lips. His eyes shine with yet to be shed tears. "Troy, you've never even seen me with my shirt off."

 "Would you let me?" 

 For some reason, be it the late hour, or that they honestly, truly trust each other, the request doesn't come as a surprise to either one of them.

 Ryan pulls back enough for his eyes to drop to Troy's sun-kissed torso, then, they rise to meet the former athlete's eyes. He seems to believe in and draw resolve from whatever he finds there, because he takes a breath, then lifts his shirt off over his head in a swift, easy motion.

 The expanse of creamy flesh that greets Troy causes a twinge in both his heart and his boxers. Ryan's torso doesn't have the definition of NBA or NFL stars, the models in cologne ads, or even some of Troy's former basketball teammates. And, faded bruises left by some disapproving asshole dot his too noticeable ribs. Yet…

 Troy moves back in without breaking eye contact. He wants, _needs_ Ryan to know that he means every bit of what he's about to do. Slowly, he places a tender kiss on Ryan's collarbone, then his shoulder, his ribcage, and finally, his _flat_ stomach, where there's a just visible line of dark blond hair trailing downward, past his prominent pelvis bone, and into his boxer briefs.

 Ryan's trembling from forcing himself to get sick, and from his emotional turmoil, subsides. He lets out a soft, staggered gasp that sounds _euphonic_ to Troy's ears, and threads his fingers into locks of Troy's hair.

 Troy stifles a moan at the sound, and the sensation of Ryan's skin against his lips, and the way Ryan's fingertips lightly stroke his scalp, and raises his head so he's at eye-level with Ryan. His wonderful, amazing boyfriend. " _Beautiful_ ," he affirms. "Just like I said."

 Breaking into his wide, radiant smile, his eyes glowing, Ryan pulls Troy into an embrace and plants a kiss on his cheek before nuzzling in with his cheek pressed to Troy's neck. A euphoric relief disperses throughout Troy's body, and he breaks into a smile, too.

 This time, when Ryan lets out a sobbing sound, Troy knows that it isn't because of shame, or self-loathing, or the ignorant bastard voice in Ryan's head not being able to recognize beauty when it's staring it in the face. He hugs Ryan back tightly, content to sit there with his shirtless chest pressed against Ryan's, the two of them dressed only in their underwear, gently rocking each other on the cold bathroom floor with chilled air blowing out of the vent beside them, _as long as_ _Ryan is okay_.

 A flash of movement by the door catches Troy's attention out of his peripheral vision and, simultaneously, he and Ryan look over to see Lupe, one of Sharpay's friends, standing in the entry way.

 "Oh my goodness!" The girl exclaims, her sleek dark hair rumpled and blush staining her cheeks pink. "I, um, I hope I'm not interrupting anything. I just really needed to…"

 "Right." Troy clears his throat.

 "Of course," Ryan chimes in.

 Troy helps Ryan to his feet and retrieves Ryan's shirt from the floor, using it to cover the blond's chest. Side-stepping awkwardly around Lupe's petite form- the girl shoots them a friendly smile that does little to lessen the awkwardnessand Troy emits an awkward laugh, in response- the boys head to Ryan's room to regain at least a semblance of modesty.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 It's going for five a.m. Ryan is seated at the kitchen table, resting his head against the cool wood surface. A cup of ginger ale sits in front of him. It was the closest thing to Sprite, which Troy typically drinks to settle his stomach, that Troy could find in the Evans' refrigerator.

 Ryan pulled his t-shirt back on, along with a pair of pajama pants, as soon as they got to his room. Troy just tugged on one of his plaid shirts. He didn't bother buttoning it up, or slipping into a pair of sweatpants. Tending to Ryan was his number one priority and taking an extra few seconds to put on an unnecessary clothing article would have impeded that priority.

 Troy's head feels fuzzy, clouded, but he's significantly more awake than he was earlier, and feels far more equipped to deal with the subject that he's about to breach. He pulls a chair up directly beside Ryan and drops into it, draping his arm around the blond's backside. "You feeling any better?"

 "Yeah." Ryan lifts his head off of the table and gives Troy a grateful smile. "Although I still feel bad for waking you up. I'm sorry."

 "Hey. It's no big deal. _Really_. You can just consider us even, now." A lighthearted grin plays on Troy's lips and he gives Ryan a feather-soft punch on the shoulder nearest him.

 Ryan lets out a tiny laugh. The seemingly fathomless sadness that darkened his eyes has all but dissipated, and Troy couldn't be more relieved.

 But, a certain something _has_ to be addressed. And, better now, before he forgets and when the moment feels right. "Someone hurt you, Ryan," Troy begins. He can feel Ryan's spine stiffen under his palm, but he presses on, ignoring the bite of guilt in his heart and his brain. Some temporary discomfort on both of their parts might just be worth it if he can fix things. If he can get to know Ryan better. Understand what happened to cause the empathy in his eyes every time he catches Troy's thoughts straying to Gabriella, make him feel like he needed to purge his already skinny, _breathtaking_ physical form of what he deemed excess food. "I know they did. You don't need to keep that bottled up inside of you. It'll just fester, and… and you don't need to be hurt any more."

 "It's stupid," Ryan murmurs, looking away.

 "It's not stupid. Not if it upset you."

 Ryan lifts his head and raises his eyes tentatively to Troy's. "It's so insignificant compared to how Gabriella's hurt you."

 "You can't compare your reason for being upset to someone else's," Troy says softly. "I read somewhere, once, that things hurt because they matter. If whatever it was caused you pain, made you doubt yourself this much, left you with scars," he thinks back on the bruises he saw on Ryan's ribcage, the fact that Ryan felt the need to puke into the toilet because he had "eaten too much", that Ryan never seems to think that he's good enough, "then it _matters_ ," he declares definitively. "And, that's why I care. So, please don't shut me out, Ry." Troy stares imploringly into Ryan's eyes, his hand moves to the blond's shoulder and squeezes it gently.

 Ryan searches Troy's eyes and his muscles relax. He draws in a breath. "There… Back when my family lived in Rhode Island, before we moved to Albuquerque, I was on the little league baseball team for Newport. There was this boy; Dalton. Dalton Reyes. He was the captain of the team."

 Troy nods, encouraging him to go on.

 "Dalton had this… there was just something about him; his leadership skills, the way he always seemed to bring out the best in everyone on the team, even me, who was only really there to make my dad proud of me…" Ryan smiles wistfully, his voice distant and his eyes clouded.

 Troy's heart twists sympathetically. He can relate.

 "It sounds silly," Ryan goes on, "but getting to see Dalton became the reason that I was glad to put on that ill-fitting jersey and run around in the dirt and sand for an hour and a half every evening. If I got to look into those hazel eyes of his, even for a minute, I could forget that I'd much rather be onstage with my sister."

 "That's not silly," Troy says quietly.

 Ryan gives him another one of those looks teeming with acute longing that make Troy's chest feel heavy, and like it's being clenched in a vise. Hesitantly, he resumes, "I-I remember trying _so hard_ to impress Dalton. To get his attention. I wanted him to smile at me, to give me one of his customary congratulatory back slaps, to hang out with me because… he thought I was someone special." His voice drops.

 Troy falls silent for a moment, his brows drawing together. As much as part of him wants to, he knows that he can't fault Dalton for being too blind to see the amazing person standing in the ball diamond beside him. He was the exact same way, not too long ago; too caught up in Gabriella to recognize how Ryan felt, too committed to someone who ultimately proved that she wasn't anywhere near as invested in him. However, there is one thing that Troy has always known, since he first crossed paths with the Evans siblings during the first day of their freshman year… "You _are_ special, Ry. If he couldn't see that…"

 "I know." Ryan exhales. His voice is unsteady, but there's a sudden clarity that steals into his posture and inflection. "He didn't know what he was missing out on. He… He wasn't worth any of the heartache. I realized that as I got older, but for a long time, it still _hurt_." How he says that one word speaks volumes and yet, leaves so much unsaid, as well.

 Troy doesn't ask about the bruises on Ryan's ribs. That feels like it would be prying, evoking bad memories that would rather be forgotten. And, Ryan's been through enough for at least a week or two, let alone a few hours.

 Ryan turns to lock eyes with Troy. The smile that tugs the corners of his mouth upright is small, but _sincere_ , and an internal glow lights his eyes. "It hurt until you came along."

 "And, now it's slowly getting better?" Troy asks, reciprocating the smile. His chest tightens with the intense hope that suddenly effervesces inside of it.

 "Yeah," Ryan says, nuzzling his nose into Troy's cheek. "It's slowly getting better."

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 Troy doesn't recall when he and Ryan moved to Ryan's bed, or when they drifted off to sleep. But, in the morning- or, more likely, it's the afternoon- he rouses to find himself in Ryan's bed with the beautiful blond beside him. He pulls the upper half of his body into a semi-upright position so he can get a better view of his bedmate. Ryan lies on his right side, facing Troy. His right arm is folded under his pillow. His left arm is in the same folded position just a few inches below his right arm, this hand resting on top of the pillow.

 For a moment, Troy lets himself rhapsodize about how the sunlight pouring in from the window strikes Ryan's hair and gives it a golden glow, how it casts a white incandescence over his fair skin. A frown spreads across his face, and his heart swells, chest tightening. "How could you ever think you're ugly, Ry?" He whispers, more to himself than his still sleeping bed partner. He reaches out to lightly run his fingers through Ryan's soft blond hair.

 As Troy's fingers brush against tips of light blond, the corner of Ryan's mouth twitches and he stirs. His eyes slowly open and focus on Troy. "Hey."

 Troy feels his stomach clench at the likely possibility that he woke Ryan. He didn't mean to, especially when Ryan could have done with a few more hours of sleep after the harrowing events of the wee hours of the morning. But, Ryan doesn't look like he's cursing Troy Bolton's name for dragging him out of a much needed rest. Troy returns softly, somewhat sheepishly, "Hey."

 "What time is it?" Ryan asks. He stretches as much as he can in his area of the bed.

 Troy turns over to look at the clock on Ryan's nightstand. "Twelve fifteen," he reads off.

 "Holy shit," Ryan whispers.

 Troy feels that he has the grounds to assume that sleeping in this late isn't a frequent occurrence in the Evans household. It probably wasn't even a thing, at all, until a certain someone decided to have an "extended sleepover". Troy wonders if maybe he's a bad influence on Ryan; keeping him up late and interfering with his sleep schedule. If that is the case, the least he could do is treat Ryan to breakfast. _Or lunch_ , he amends, reminding himself of the time. "Ry." He nudges the blond gently as he jumps up. "You, me, lunch. Come on."

 Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Ryan murmurs, "Yeah. Sure." A smile graces his face and he takes the hand that Troy offers him.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 To Troy's surprise, as he reaches for the key to his truck, he finds Ryan tossing another set of keys to him.

 Troy catches them easily, and his brows draw together in confusion as he glances up from the silver key to his boyfriend's face.

 "I thought you could drive one of my dad's cars, today," Ryan offers as an explanation. "Not that I have anything against your truck, it's just um, _unsafe_. You know? Driving a vehicle with an unreliable engine."

 "Your dad's cool with that?"Although the older man was perfectly warm and friendly, Troy recalls how imposing Mr. Evans could be during the summer that he worked for the head of the Evans family. An involuntary shudder creeps down his spine as he remembers being pressured into promising to sing with Sharpay merely because of a _look_ that Mr. Evans had given him. Getting on the man's bad side is one of the last things he'd ever want to do, especially now that he's dating Mr. Evans's son.

 "He was ready to make you part of the family, last summer," Ryan reassures him with a smile and a light pat on the bicep. "I highly doubt he'd take issue with you driving one of his twelve cars."

 " _Twelve_?" Troy repeats, flabbergasted.

 Ryan nods, grinning bashfully. "Yeah, twelve." Threading his arm through the former athlete's, Ryan leads him through the so-big-it's-almost-labyrinthian house to a door that hides an _immense_ car garage behind it. He flicks on the light in the garage and…

 "Holy…" With what he's sure is a goggling expression on his face, his head sort of fuzzy, Troy takes in the rows of parked cars. They're in such mint condition, he could have easily mistaken them for being brand new, given the bright shine of the overhead light on each car's exterior paint job.

 As he gapes at the line up, attempting to mentally gauge each vehicle's capabilities by its model, he feels oddly compelled to begin counting them. "Nine, ten, eleven…" He pauses. "I count eleven."

 Ryan follows Troy's line of sight. "Oh yeah.I think they took the Mustang with them."

 Troy nods with faint bemusement.

 When he continues to linger at Ryan's side, the blond nods encouragingly toward the key in Troy's hand and then sweeps his arm in a grand gesture toward the cars. "Go ahead."

 Following Ryan's directional gesturing, Troy presses a button on the key set he was handed. There's a responding beeping sound and the headlights on a red Toyota Camry briefly flicker on. That's it. That's Troy's vehicle for the day. Feeling sort of like Alice after she tumbled down the rabbit hole, or Aladdin when he rubbed the magic lamp and unleashed the genie, an awestruck Troy dazedly steps forward to embrace his- _temporary_ \- new car.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 The Camry maneuvers like a dream, easily putting miles behind them. _And_ , Troy reluctantly admits to himself, _it's kind of awesome to not have to worry about my engine potentially biting the dirt and leaving me stranded._ If he felt like another person, before, being behind the wheel of this automobile with Ryan Evans in the passenger seat beside him, perusing the radio stations for a suitable soundtrack to their lunchtime excursion, is the confirmation that he really _is_ in a whole new world.

 He pulls into the drive through section of a Steak 'n Shake. Ryan turns the radio down as Troy slowly brings the vehicle up right behind the car currently at the speaker.

 "See anything you like?" Troy asks, already eyeballing the Royale Double Steakburger on the menu display.

 "The milkshakes all look soooo _good_ …!" The words escape Ryan in the form of a slightly muffled, tortured-sounding groan.

 "Yeah, they do," Troy agrees. Peanut butter cup, cookie dough, M&M, Butterfinger, Snickers, and the classics; chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry… It's like a library of different flavors, and each one sounds completely _delicious_. Especially to his empty stomach. "Which one would you like?"

 "I _can't_ ," Ryan says vehemently, his face blanching as he nervously chews at his lower lip, eyes wide. "Troy, they're all too fattening. They probably have over six-hundred calories."

 Troy turns and fixes Ryan in a serious stare. He makes certain that each word that he says is spoken clearly, so that they will leave an impact and sink in past that demeaning voice reverberating harshly in the petite blond's skull. "Ry, you are _not_ fat. Trust me, letting yourself indulge in _one_ milkshake isn't going to kill you."

 He can see his words slowly chipping away at Ryan's consternation.

 Thoughtfully, he goes on, "The average person is supposed to eat around two thousand calories a day. When you do the math, and subtract those six hundred milkshake calories, you're still left with fourteen hundred calories." Troy smiles and says gently, "Fourteen hundred is a lot bigger than six hundred, Ry."

 "Yeah," Ryan murmurs. His front teeth cease gnawing at his lip.

 "And, I _promise_ to keep you busy enough to burn off any superfluous calories," Troy adds with a meaningful wink and buoying smile. If he employs puppy-dog eyes, as well, that's entirely unintentional.

 The tension eases off of the younger Evans twin's shoulders and acquiesce begins visibly spreading over his face. Coupled with a deep pink that stains his cheeks. No doubt imagining just how, exactly, Troy plans to keep him busy. "Alright," he sighs.

 "Alright!" Troy echoes, shooting Ryan a delighted grin. His heart and stomach fizz as Ryan reciprocates the grin with a smile. Troy pulls the car forward to the speaker and places their order: a Royale Double Steakburger, fries, and a chocolate shake for him, and a Chicken Sandwich with fries and a strawberry milkshake, for Ryan.

 They eat their lunch in the parking lot. Troy snatches a handful of Ryan's fries, which Ryan doesn't seem to mind. Troy eats the fries plain- he's never been too big a fan of dousing things in ketchup- and he says, "I hope it's not too intrusive to ask, but where _are_ your parents, anyway?" He feels Ryan staring at him and catches the blond's eye. It's right at the moment their eyes meet that he realizes that he just asked that question with his mouth full. Immediately, he internally chastises himself for being a jerk and a doofus, and his cheeks burn with shame. Oh god, he hopes that he didn't spit food all over Ryan in his stupidity. "Sorry," he murmurs, lowering his eyes to the floor of the car.

 "You're fine. Really," Ryan assures him. He smiles like he somehow finds Troy's lack of proper table manners- or car manners- endearing and it doesn't look like flecks of partially chewed food are sticking to his clothes or his face. _Thank goodness._ Then, after taking a sip of his milkshake, he mercifully changes the subject and Troy's heart gives a grateful leap. "I believe they're in India, for the time being. Although, they travel so much, it's hard to keep track, sometimes."

 Troy slowly picks up a fry, chews it thoroughly, and swallows it down. His parents are almost always home with him; even if one of them is out, he can usually count on the other to be there, so he has no idea what it's like to not only rarely get to see your parents, but to have them on another continent with an entire ocean stretching out between you and them. He sort of had an inkling while working at Lava Springs that Mr. and Mrs. Evans were more distant in their parenting approach, less hands-on than his own folks, but he wasn't quite ready for the sudden surge of melancholy that confirmation of that inkling would bring on. He sips at his milkshake to steel himself, or maybe for a momentary distraction, feels the sweet, thickly churned, rich chocolate slide down his throat. "They're gonna come see the show, though, right?"

 "They wouldn't miss it for anything," Ryan says with such certainty that Troy believes it.

 He couldn't picture Mr. and Mrs. Evans missing their children's final show in their four-year spanning theatrical careers at East High School. Distant is not equivalent to unloving, after all.

 "What about your dad?" Ryan asks after delicately picking his sandwich up and taking a small bite out of it. Troy notes that Ryan has perfect car manners- he chews with his mouth closed and waits until he's swallowed to speak- and feels even more like a jerk and a doofus. "I hope he isn't giving you grief over his athlete son being the star of yet another school musical."

 "No," Troy replies. His heart warms a bit as he recounts, "I talked to him the other day, when I was cleaning out my locker, and he said that he and my mom will be there."

 Ryan smiles, his eyes glowing softly. "Troy, that's-"

 "Yeah." Troy rubs at the back of his neck and returns the smile. "He even said that if I wanted to go to a college for theater, they support me all the way. One-hundred percent."

 A small squeal of pure joy emits from the blond. "Troy, that's _wonderful_!"

 "Yeah, it's…" Troy doesn't have to finish that thought.

 Ryan leans over and looks like he means to hug the former athlete, but with their food sitting on their laps, he settles for linking their pinkie fingers together. "I sent a letter to Juilliard," he says, eyes glowing, "putting in a good word for you. And, emailed NYU and a couple of universities in California." As he goes on, his arm swings slightly in an apparent need to physically demonstrate his enthusiasm, taking Troy's with it.

 A thought about theatrical personalities floats through the back of Troy's mind as he lets his arm be moved in synch with Ryan's, and a tiny, muffled laugh leaves him.

 "They would all be _more_ than happy to have you," Ryan finishes. 

 Troy's eyes widen as he absorbs that information. Then, excitement takes hold. Juilliard. NYU. Universities in New York and California. It's a wide range. Expanded horizons. None of these choices leave him confined to Albuquerque, and, more importantly, none of these colleges are putting him up for consideration because he's East High's Basketball Guy. They're taking in the other parts of him, as well. They're not already putting him into a box pre-packaged with expectations that he has to live up to at all costs.

 He's just Troy to them, too.

 "You're the best boyfriend anyone could ever ask for," he says, his eyes a bit watery as he smiles and curls his finger more tightly around Ryan's.

 "I just didn't want you to feel like you had limited options," Ryan says softly. He's clearly affected by Troy's proclamation. His eyes are misty as he says, "You're _so much more_ than a pretty face who can dribble a ball and make slam dunks. Or, whatever they are." 

 Troy laughs quietly. It's the first time in his life that he's ever had anyone tell him that he has value beyond his athletic abilities. Value beyond the pedestal that his peers and the surrounding community placed him on before he could offer up a syllable in protest. And, Ryan being uncertain of terminology that he never needed to know, in the first place, makes him all the more endearing.

 Because he's from a different world. A world that Troy Bolton has somehow, despite the odds, taken up residence in.

 "I _did_ have limited options," Troy says. "Not too long ago, it felt like all I would ever be is 'The Basketball Guy'. But, now?" His gaze moves to Ryan, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He reflects on how natural singing and dancing with the gorgeous blond boy in the seat next to him is, how easily and perfectly they fit together. How good it feels to make a smile break out on that fair face. How Ryan's light, lilting voice seems to latch onto something at the core of his being and brings an almost effortless calm over him. How _right_ it is to kiss Ryan, to breathe in his sweet scent, to wake up to find him on the pillows beside him. How, after Gabriella left him, last summer, Ryan was the very first person to put a genuine smile on his face…

 When Troy is with Ryan, it's like the universe falls neatly into place, like his puzzle is at last complete. " _Now, I'm in a whole new world with you_ ," he finishes in a half singsongy voice. He doesn't care how cheesy it sounds. He's in love.

 Cheesiness is totally warranted and perfectly acceptable.

 " _Unbelievable sights, indescribable feeling_ ," Ryan responds in the same half singsongy tone. His eyebrows arc jovially as a grin breaks out on his face and his eyes shine.

 "All of that jazz." The smile takes the form of a full-fledged grin and Troy taps the brim of Ryan's hat playfully, knocking it down over his eyes.

 Ryan's grin doesn't fade from his face as readjusts the skewed angle of his headwear.

 "Come on." Shifting his features into a serious expression, Troy directs a coaxing nod toward the food on Ryan's lap as he reclines in the driver's seat. "I wanna see you take at least another _bite_ out of that sandwich."

 If only for Troy, Ryan takes two more bites out of his sandwich and eats a couple more french fries. About half of the chicken sandwich remains uneaten, and a little over half of Ryan's fries sit untouched in the carton. Troy determines that is more than satisfactory, at least Ryan isn't starving himself.

 While polishing off the rest of his burger, Troy proposes, "We can save the rest for later."

 Ryan's expression is grateful.

 They pack up their leftovers and trash, and, taking a last drink of his milkshake for the road, Troy shifts the gear back into drive. As he exits the parking lot of the Steak 'n Shake, Ryan's station searching turns up results.

 Troy grins at the familiar chords.

 "Oh, no," Ryan feigns revulsion, but his smile quickly negates it.

 

_Never made it as a wise man_ , Troy sings along, imitating the harsh intonations of the singer's guttural voice.

 

_Couldn't cut it as a poor man stealin'_

 

_And, this is how_

_You remind me_

 

As the bridge of the song approaches, Troy peeks at Ryan. A wary grin breaks out on his face and he waits to be admonished. He likens it to dipping your big toe in to test the waters before submerging yourself.

 

_This is how_

_You remind me_

 

Chad would groan out loud and make him change the station.

 

_This is how_

_You remind me_

_Of what I really am_

 

Gabriella would laugh and humor him for a minute, then switch over to some Carrie Underwood or Vanessa Carlton.

 

_This is how_

_You remind me_

_Of what I really am_

 

Ryan taps out the beat, his movements in-synch with Troy's, and proceeds to belt out the chorus right along with him, completely uncaring that it's Nickelback and _Nickelback_ _sucks_.

 

_It's not like you_

_To say sorry_

_I was waitin' on_

_A different story_

 

_This time I'm_

_Mistaken_

_For handin' you a_

_Heart worth breakin'_

 

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 "Leaving us so soon?" Ryan asks. He wears a smile as he watches Troy pack up his belongings, but the angle of his brows and the clouding of his irises give away his wistfulness.

 "Yeah," Troy replies. He can't deny that his heart is heavy at the prospect of leaving a place that has started to feel like home. At leaving _Ryan_ , even temporarily. But… "I've gotta report to my parents some time."

 Ryan nods in understanding.

 "And, I need to make some renovations to my room," Troy adds meaningfully.

 "Ohhh." Ryan nods knowingly, well aware of the overbearing presence of a certain someone in Troy's bedroom.

 There's silence for a moment as Troy slings his bag over his shoulder and he and Ryan meet each other's eyes, then at the same time, both of them blurt: "Hey listen-", and, "Do you-?"

 "Sorry," Ryan murmurs, pink creeping into his cheeks. He takes a step back, lowering his eyes in embarrassment.

 "I'm going out jogging, later," Troy resumes. He reaches out and touches Ryan's bicep, rubbing reassuringly against the cottony material clothing the blond's soft skin. Yes, Ryan is what some might call "socially awkward", but that doesn't mean that he needs to berate himself for a simple conversational mistake.

 Ryan's muscles relax at the contact. He lifts his head and looks to Troy, his eyes searching the taller boy's hopefully.

 "You're welcome to join me, if you want," Troy finishes with a warm, inviting smile.

 "I'd love to," Ryan says. His eyes glow softly.

 "Awesome." Troy leans in and presses his lips to Ryan's forehead, then the corner of his mouth. That response is precisely what he hoped to hear. "Walk me to the door?" He asks.

 "Of course." Hand in hand, the pair exit Ryan's room and make their way to the foyer. They pass by the living room, and through the decorative pillars on both sides of the entry way, Troy can see Sharpay and Tiara.

 "This is the dress I'll be wearing as Gabriella, in the musical," Sharpay says, holding up a green, strapless dress with a billowy, ruffled skirt and sequined embroidery that is far more Sharpay-esque than anything Gabriella would ever wear. "And, this is the costume I will- I mean, I _would_ ", she catches herself, "be wearing if I was still playing me." At this, she displays a sparkling blue dress with an upper-thigh length skirt and one long, puffy, sheer sleeve.

 Tiara smiles and assesses, "Lovely."

 Sharpay's tiny Yorkie, Boi, gives a high-pitched yap, as if in agreement, from where he sits on the floor at his owner's feet.

 "I know." Sharpay beams proudly. "Do I have exquisite taste, or what?"

 Troy observes that Tiara seems to study the details of the blue dress's makeup very keenly.

 Ryan must have noticed, as well, because he clears his throat sharply, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "And, what are we up to?" He asks with a somewhat forced cheeriness.

 "Sharpay was showing me her costume choices for the musical," Tiara replies. If she took notice of Ryan's tone, she makes no indication of it.

 Sharpay's eyes move to the bag hanging from Troy's shoulder. "Aww, leaving us so soon, Troy?" She coos, sticking out her lower lip in a pout.

 "Yeah. I have a few things that I need to take care of." As he speaks, Troy reflexively shifts in toward Ryan. Being within close proximity of Sharpay still puts him ill at ease, and he's fairly certain that no duration of time spent under the same roof with her will change that.

 "Oh. Well, toodles, then!" Sharpay waves them off, her attention returning to the two dresses. As Ryan and Troy take another step toward the front door, however, they're interrupted by the female Evans twin tacking on, "And, you'd better make sure your outfit compliments mine!"

 Troy lets out a long, exasperated sigh. "Fuck. Me," he grumbles low enough that only Ryan can discern the words.

 "My pleasure," Ryan responds quietly enough for only Troy to make out."I promise I'll be gentle."

 Troy is still chuckling about it on the drive back to the Bolton house.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 Once Troy has stowed all traces of his relationship with Gabriella in a box that he toes under his bed, he looks around his bedroom. It's a touch emptier, but that just means he can refill it with better things.

 His eyes fall on the acoustic guitar he got for his twelfth birthday, sitting on the shelving unit a few feet away from the foot of his bed. He vaguely recalls painstakingly trying to learn the chords to "Bohemian Rhapsody" when he and Chad were fifteen and got the bright idea to start a band.

 A band that never really got anywhere. The only people who showed up to their concerts were their parents and Chad's younger siblings, who started getting antsy, as little kids are apt to do, and wanted to leave not even halfway through the second song on the setlist.

 The Troy Bolton that he was not that long ago, who lived for basketball because he had to, shelved the guitar, and only thought of it when he, Chad, Zeke, and Jason got together to play _Guitar Hero_ and it occurred to him that tapping the plastic buttons on the guitar-shaped controller in time to the notes on the screen couldn't truly compare to strumming the strings on a real guitar and making the music yourself.

 The Troy Bolton who tried to excuse the newfound discovery of his love for singing and how it seemed to subconsciously draw him to the stage, by saying that he thought being in the musical would be "good for a laugh", who shoved anything that wasn't related to basketball and being the person that everyone else expected him to be so far down inside that he couldn't even admit to himself that music filled him from head to toe until it drew notes out of his throat and compelled his body to move, would _never_ have done this.

 But, the Troy Bolton who is dating Ryan Evans is a different Troy Bolton. A _freer_ Troy Bolton.

 And, it's because of that fact that he grabs the guitar, re-familiarizes himself with the strings, the tabs, the weight of the instrument in his arms and against his chest, and plays a few chords to see how much he remembers.

 It's because of Ryan that he takes the instrument in tow and heads to the room that the family computer is located in, pulls up a tab with a Youtube video, and watches intently, learning, committing where to position his fingers to memory, and _plays_ for the first time in years.

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 

 Ten minutes after he dozed off, Troy starts awake to find himself alone in his bed. For a second, or so, he believes that he's right back where he started, dumped by Gabriella, alone, heartbroken, and going absolutely nowhere. His heart aches, a dull throbbing in his chest, and then he recalls the events of the day leading up to now. Relief fills every nook and cranny, but he still wishes that Ryan was there.

 Then, maybe that few nightmarish moments of uncertainty wouldn't have occurred in the first place.

 That picture of Gabriella in her powdered blue sweater is no longer sitting on the nightstand, casually mocking him with her smiling face, however, so there's a small comfort.

 Standing up and stretching, he pauses to listen. The house is quiet. He moves to his bedroom door, opens it, and pads out into the kitchen. "Mom?" He calls. "Dad?"

 There's no response.

  _I guess they still aren't back from wherever they are_ , he muses. He scratches absently at his chest and goes to the fridge to grab something to drink. Upon returning to his room, he takes several gulps of the cool, refreshing water in the plastic bottle he retrieved, and then sends Ryan a text.

 

**headin out soon. Be here in 5 ok?**

 

Almost the very instant he finishes lacing up his shoes after changing into track pants, a t-shirt, and his black sweat jacket, he hears a rapping at the back door.

 Ryan is there, dressed in what look to be newly purchased sweats, pricey-looking sneakers, a t-shirt with a graphic of a cityscape on it, and a zip-up cardigan. He is without the usual immaculately matched hat, something that Troy acknowledges with faint surprise.

 "I didn't know we were headed to a photo shoot," Troy ribs the blond gently.

 "Yeah, like I would be caught dead wearing sweatpants in the vicinity of cameras," Ryan returns. His lightly flushed cheeks and genuine smile take the bite out of the quip.

 Troy peers out to look at the darkening clouds gathering in the gray sky. "In that case, I hope that means you don't mind getting those clothes wet."

 Ryan tilts his head up to take in the overcast sky, as well. A chilled gust of wind chooses that moment to shake the leaves and branches of the surrounding trees, billow out their clothes, and disarrange their hair. Well… _Troy's_ hair, anyway. The distinct smell of oncoming rain pervades the air.

 "I figure it's a small price to pay," Ryan says softly, resolutely.

 Smile crossing his face, Troy reaches out to grab hold of the smaller boy's hand. "Let's get going, then." He uses his free hand to pull the hood attached to Ryan's cardigan up over Ryan's head and then tugs the performer along behind him.

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

 By the time they return to the street the Bolton house is on, the two of them are laughing, breathless, and soaked to the bone. "You didn't have to keep pace with me, you know," Troy says. He pauses briefly to kneel over, hands on his knees, as he catches his breath. He had no idea that Ryan was so fast.

 "I wanted to," Ryan says simply, waiting patiently at Troy's side. If the break-neck speed they reached at the last leg of the jog caused him any strain, Troy can't tell. The only evidence that Ryan was working out is the movement of his chest as he replenishes his depleted oxygen supply.

 They slow to a walk as they approach the driveway. There is one lone vehicle parked out front: Troy's truck.

 "Your parents still aren't home?" Ryan gasps out.

 "Looks like it," Troy affirms. He beckons the blond to follow him through the grass, up the porch steps, and inside. They take off their sodden sneakers at the front entrance.

 Ryan pauses after slipping his right shoe off and righting himself. He takes in their surroundings; the same comfortably familiar living room with all of its comfortably familiar furnishings that has been there to greet Troy every day of his life. A fond smile tugs at Ryan's candied lips. "Your place is very charming," he says. There isn't a vaguely condescending laugh embedded in those words, or a smirk on his face.

 But, then again, Ryan wouldn't dub something charming unless he meant it.

 Troy takes a second or two to muse how bizarre it is that an _actor_ would prove to be more sincere than the insanely smart girl who was admitted into the Freshman Honors Program at Stanford University. Then, he shoves all thoughts of Gabriella into their own box at the back of his mind to be stowed away and, with any luck, forgotten, in time. "We're both soaked," he says, tugging off his dripping socks. His heart reacts to the proposal he's about to make, causing blood to rush to his cheeks and heat to trickle southward even before he can get the words out. "What do you say to… to showering and changing into some warm, dry clothes?"

 If a suggestive tone finds a way into those words, Troy would insist that it's entirely unintentional. But, not entirely unwitting.

 "That sounds great. Really great," Ryan relays. His tone is shy, but earnest, and color stains his cheeks. If he detected a suggestive undertone to Troy's proposal, he raises no argument against it.

 "Great," Troy says. He feels stupid for adding a third 'great' to the conversation, but resists the urge to reprimand himself. "Come on," he says, instead, nodding toward a corridor to their immediate left. "Bathroom's this way."

 Ryan follows along, yet, Troy still feels the need to reach out and grab onto the blond's hand. Maybe to guide him, and maybe to stabilize himself.

 Yeah, when Ryan gives his hand a reassuring squeeze, "stabilizing himself", feels more accurate.

 As Troy crosses the threshold into the bathroom, and begins peeling off his layers of sopping clothing, he likens the adrenaline coursing through him to the kind of rush one feels the first time they arrive at the very top of the highest peak of a roller coaster. He knows the plunge is coming, and while there is some fear that his safety harness won't hold, that the coaster might careen off the track and send him on a one way trip to a fiery demise, there's also the thrill of knowing that he'll never experience anything like this again.

 And, he's so glad, so grateful that _Ryan_ is the one occupying the seat next to him on this roller coaster ride, that his legs and hands tremble.

 

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 

 In the shower, with the curtain drawn closed around them, sealing them off from the rest of the world and into their own bubble of steam, body wash, shampoos, and a spray of water that's just the right sort of hot, things like "personal space", become virtually nonexistent. Ryan helps lather the shampoo into Troy's hair, his talented fingers stroking places on Troy's scalp that, until right this moment, Troy had no idea were so _sensitive_. Troy lathers shampoo onto Ryan's hair, and assists him in gently rinsing the suds out, making certain that every strand is clear.

 Then they stand, Ryan's back to Troy's front. Ryan arches his neck to the right, letting the shower of water cascading from the shower head hit the stretch of milky white flesh.

 Troy's chest and lower body tighten with desire. To be close to Ryan, to kiss him, to… Troy lets his hands run along the curves of Ryan's hips, the pads of his fingers brushing softly against Ryan's smooth as porcelain skin. There's faint bruising back here, as well. He rubs some of his body wash onto the ridges of Ryan's shoulder blades and along the vertebrae of his spinal column with the intention to both erase the marks and soothe their host. Once he's finished coating Ryan's backside in the musky scent so familiar to him, slowly, he steps forward and lowers his chin, bringing his lips to the crook of Ryan's neck.

 A shivering breaks out along Ryan's petite frame, and Troy is immediately seized by the heavy, treacly feeling that he's done something wrong. He pulls back, heart sinking with fear that he's messed up for the millionth time in his life. "I'm sorry. I just…" Feeling lost and rather useless, and desperately frustrated with himself, he runs a hand through his hair. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

 As he turns to meet Troy, Ryan's brows draw together with a solicitude that reminds Troy of the helplessness he saw in his father's eyes the night he tried to drive to California. To _Gabriella_. But, unlike Troy's dad, Ryan doesn't turn away from the problem. He holds Troy's gaze unflinchingly as he says, his tone tender, but emphatic, "I'm not exactly an expert in this area, either, but you need to have more faith in yourself, Troy." A soft, encouraging smile is on his face as he adds, "Because, from where I'm standing, you're doing just fine."

 He reaches out and takes hold of Troy's hand. The touch is tangible evidence of how far Troy has come. Standing in this shower with Ryan, this close to Ryan, is proof of how far Troy has come. He's not sitting around with the weight of Gabriella's departure, of everyone's expectations on his shoulders, crushing him. He's no longer clinging to a person who intended to leave him behind, and he was too blind to see it. He isn't wandering blindly through a labyrinth with the exit nowhere in sight.

 And, with some luck, and maybe some love, Ryan won't be spending any more of his nights hunched over the toilet, "purging".

 The knowledge of all of this, that he and Ryan are so much closer to realizing their dreams now that they have each other, is all the incentive that Troy needs to envelope Ryan's hand in his own. He tugs Ryan into him and litters kisses all over the smaller boy's neck and shoulders. Ryan's arms wrap around Troy's midsection and Troy latches onto a particular spot on the blond's skin, nipping, sucking, intent on making Ryan feel good, just like Ryan made Troy feel good the night that he awoke to the sensation of the former athlete's stupidly hormonal body grinding against him.

 On making Ryan feel good, and providing both Ryan and himself with proof that everything has gotten better.

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

They alternate between kissing insistently at each other's lips, necks, faces, caressing stretches of each other's skin, and toweling each other off. Walking backwards with Ryan keeping a lookout for Troy's parents and acting as Troy's eyes, Troy manages to maneuver himself and Ryan into his bedroom. When Troy stumbles out of eagerness, his back hitting into a wall, Ryan is right there, pulling him upright. He peers into Troy's eyes, his light voice simultaneously hushed and tinged with the tiniest bit of easy laughter, and raised in a hint of alarm. "Whoa. Careful, there. Are you okay?"

 Instead of responding, Troy touches his nose to Ryan's and then resumes kissing him earnestly, intensely. Every inch of him seems to shiver with delight as Ryan's fingers lovingly trace the slight indentations in the musculature of his lower back.

 Once they cross the threshold into Troy's room, Troy making absolute certain to shut the door behind them, what with his room being perilously close to the kitchen, they fall onto Troy's bed in a matter of seconds. Troy is on top of Ryan, his lower body situated between the blond's legs, and the heat between them is… Ridiculous. Extraordinary. And, increasing by the minute.

 All too aware of his own reaction to the situation, he puts some strategic space between himself and Ryan. He can't give into the almost overpowering urges spreading their heated tendrils throughout his abdominal region and below. Not just yet. Scrambling to refocus his thoughts as he rummages through one of the drawers in his nightstand, Troy manages, "My dad… got me a box of… He thought, at some point, that I would…" Figuring that there is no better way of phrasing it, he goes with the both vague, and not quite vague enough, "you know."

 Ryan nods, brows arched the slightest bit. Troy is ready to apologize for any discomfort he might have caused his boyfriend at the entirely _unsexy_ reminder of his relationship with Gabriella and where things might have gone, but the apology proves unneeded. Ryan's fair face is flushed a deep pink, his lips are kissed-red, and his lashes veil his eyes. Gabriella is clearly the farthest thing from his mind.

 He's also the most attractive thing that Troy has ever seen in his life, and… _Holy shitting fuck_.

 His dad was wrong. His dad was _so_ wrong. He never came _close_ to doing this with Gabriella, and, quite frankly, Troy has zero qualms about that.

 Having finally found what he was looking for, Troy rips open the box of condoms, grateful that he's able to do so easily, and tears one off of the glinting silver strip. His inexperience and cluelessness nags at him, threatening to take hold, but one look at Ryan, at the trust and encouragement shining in his eyes, silences his misgivings.

 He doesn't need Gabriella to tell him what to do. He's got this.

 Picking up the tube of lubrication that was also stashed in the drawer, he unscrews the cap, and squirts some onto his palm. It's colder than he anticipated as he distributes it over his hand, but he doesn't let that faze him. He's doing just fine from where Ryan is standing. Now, fully equipped, Troy approaches Ryan. He inhales and breathes out in a shaky puff, then climbs onto the bed to join the performer.

 "Go on." Ryan smiles softly, his muscles relaxed.

 So. Troy slips his first finger into him. The strange warmth surrounding the digit causes a moan to swell in his throat, and the pleased, keening cry that escapes Ryan takes hold of Troy right at the core of his being.

 " _Fuck_ ," Troy gets out, cock throbbing, chest aching.

 "A… Th-The next one. Troy, _please_."

 Troy obeys and carefully gets his second finger in. Ryan is _tight_. Holy freaking shit, he's tight. But it feels good, and Troy can't help but imagine how insanely good Ryan is going to feel around him. "Is that…" He swallows, scared to move, scared to…

 "It's fine. It's-!" The gasp that wells in Ryan's throat cuts him off. "God, it's somuch _better_ than fine…!"

 "Does that…?" Troy wiggles his fingers, feels Ryan squirm, and his entire body aches, practically quivering with desire. "Are you ready, Ry?" It amazes him that he can still string a sentence together, that his speech skills haven't completely devolved into mindless grunts and moans and whimpers. Because this really _is_ unlike anything he's ever done before, and it's… _Whoa_.

 " _Yes_. I want you. Troy, I need you…!"

 With that, Troy bites at his bottom lip, slowly removes his fingers from Ryan, and gropes for the condom sitting on the bed near them. The foil wrapper slips out of his grasp three times, and that's when he remembers through the haze clouding his brain that his fingers and hand are slick with lubrication.

 As if he can sense that his boyfriend is having difficulties, Ryan turns around and retrieves the condom. He easily tears the wrapper open and begins working the rubbery sleeve contained within up Troy's member.

 "I really, _really_ don't know what I'd do without you, Ry," Troy manages to say between gasps and needy moans. The brush of Ryan's fingers against that ultra-sensitive region of his body is driving him wild. And, the prospect of what is about to happen is…!

 In response, Ryan places a soft kiss on Troy's mouth. Troy wasn't aware of how much he needed the love and reassurance poured into that kiss until that love and reassurance wash over him, wearing away the sharp edges of his nerves. "H-Here we go," Ryan says softly as he breaks the kiss off, his voice low, husky, brimming with anticipation. He glances down at Troy's manhood, and then back up, where his blue eyes peer deeply into Troy's, seeking something.

 "Here we go," Troy confirms with a nod. A look into Ryan's eyes makes it clear that he wants and _needs_ this as much as Troy does. That there's no one else in the world that he'd rather be experiencing this with. Troy hopes that Ryan can tell that he feels the exact same way. 

 Ryan lays back, legs spread, and Troy positions himself at the blond's entrance. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry and throat uncomfortably tight. "Let… Let me know if I'm hurting you, okay?"

 "You won't hurt me," Ryan says, his light voice full and certain. For a moment, Troy believes that Ryan is invincible and that his own inexperience won't tear or torque something. For a moment, Troy is empowered, emboldened, and releases his fear of a poor performance, his fear of screwing this up, screwing _everything_ up. Ryan Evans believes in him.

 He can do anything.

 So, he does.

 He enters Ryan's body with a slow, sedulous motion of his hips. An electroshock of feelings courses through Troy from where his body meets Ryan's. From where their bodies are _connected_. A gasp swells in his throat, and he closes his eyes tightly to contain it, head tilted back. _Fuck_ is the only word among the countless others racing through his mind and flitting over the tip of his tongue that seems to come close to describing… _this_. Internally, it feels like a ballast has been removed, that he's beginning to hover and will soon leave the earth behind him.

 He rolls his hips into Ryan a second time.

 The electroshock seems to be making its way through Ryan's body. His mouth comes open, and as he arches back, a whimper leaves him. A whimper that Troy can feel on every nerve-ending. Troy needs to brace himself, suddenly, because it's all too much, and Ryan must be aware of that need, must share it, because he grabs Troy's forearms and gently places them at the slight valley between his ribs and the outer curves of his hips. His hands remain there, over top of the brunette's, stroking his knuckles.

 "H-How am I…?" Troy gets out, his breath-rate almost frighteningly rapid. He's so grateful to have Ryan there to steady him. Ryan, who is every bit as nervous as he is, his hands are trembling slightly as they rest on Troy's, but is still able to be Troy's rock.

 And, that's why Troy wants to make this good for him. No, better than good. _So much better_.

 "You're doing _great_. Troy, you…! I-It's so…!" Ryan's shortness of breath, flushing face, the flush spreading to his chest, and his starry-eyed enthusiasm are enough to encourage Troy.

 His hips make another forward motion, then another, and there is no weight anchoring him, no more ballasts, no more suffocating, spine-crushing pressure to be who someone else wants him to be. There's no earth beneath him, either. It's just Ryan. Ryan's powerful hips readily meeting every motion of Troy's pelvis and amplifying the pleasure, the sensation, the _experience_ of being inside him. Ryan's not even remotely stifled whimpers as he tells Troy, "Yes. _Yes_ …! Just like. Like _that_ ", how ludicrously, spectacularly _hot_ it is to hear his own name coming out of Ryan's mouth in the form of an unsuppressed, full, pure, liquid moan. Knowing that he is responsible for it.

 Responsible for all filters and barriers Ryan set up to keep his real feelings locked away coming down like the walls of Jericho.

 Responsible for the sounds of his own inhalations rattling his chest, noises that he never thought he could ever make rising, uncontainable, out of him, and his pulse throbbing in his temples. The unbelievable heat pinging off of every nerve in his body and surging down, right to the head of his cock.

 Troy isn't sure how long the experience lasts. His usually infallible internal clock seems to be temporarily on the fritz, but he can't fault it for that. Some things in life are far more important than keeping track of the time, after all. Things like _this_ , for example. With Troy's final couple of thrusts comes a release unlike any he's ever experienced. Venting his frustrations by shooting hoops or bursting into song has never brought on an all-encompassing feeling of instantaneous tranquility. Not like this.

 Judging from how Ryan has gone slack beneath him, he's had a release of the same magnitude. And, Troy is _thrilled_.

 As he lowers himself onto Ryan, completely spent, it takes a minute for his brain to regain its ability to fully process information. For him to even try to communicate how he feels verbally.

 "You were…" Ryan starts, breaking the near silence that fell upon the room and expressing what Troy can't just yet. "Troy, I… It was _amazing_."

 "Yeah?" Troy asks. Even lifting his head to look at Ryan seems like it would require more energy than he can expend, at the moment.

 "Yeah," Ryan confirms, his smile audible.

 Troy summons up the stamina to move his body enough to kiss Ryan's cheek. "I thought so, too. It _was_ _amazing_." He then flops onto the left side of his bed, Ryan taking up the tiny remaining space on the right.

 Amazing. He was "amazing".

 He can feel the smile on his face, and it doesn't leave as he and Ryan drowsily take the few seconds necessary to handle cleaning up, as he pulls his thick multi-colored quilt up around them, or as he and Ryan kiss each other softly.

 "I love you, Troy," Ryan says, his eyes glowing and a smile that could melt an iceberg on his lips as he snuggles into the former athlete.

 "I love you, too, Ry," Troy tells him just before his eyes close. He wraps his arm around the smaller boy, drawing him in closer. "I love you." 

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

The sound of his bedroom door opening is what jars Troy awake. He opens his eyes, just registering his father's presence.

 "You know," the senior Bolton pauses at the end of the bed, shaking his head ever so slightly, "when I told you not to get into any trouble with Sharpay, that wasn't meant to be an invitation for you to hop into bed with her brother."

 At that, Troy's heart misses a beat. Swiftly, he moves into an upright position, already racking his brain for some kind of explanation. Or, for the skills needed to defend Ryan, if it comes to that. "Dad, I-"

 His father holds out his hands, a signal for Troy to stop. His gray eyes aren't steely with fury, his face hasn't blanched with disgust. Instead, there's reassurance, and a faint hint of amusement, in his features. "Settle down. It's _okay_ ," he says quietly.

 Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Troy feels his body quake with the potency of his relief. _It's okay_. He's not going to be disowned, beaten to a pulp, or, worse, forbidden from ever seeing Ryan again.

 In the midst of his relief, however, he allows himself to wonder, for a very brief moment, if things would play out this way if his dad still viewed him as "The Basketball Guy", instead of seeing him as his son. If that was the case, if he was still "not 'just a guy'", would he be told to pack up his things and get the fuck out, had he been discovered in bed with Ryan Evans?

 "I just have one question," Coach Bolton begins. The still existing paternal warmth in his voice puts the question out of Troy's mind and eases Troy's unsettled stomach and racing heart.

 "Yeah?" Troy implores, doing his best to keep his voice hushed, so as not to disturb his bed partner. _Again_.

 "Are you serious about this? 'Cause your mom and I didn't raise you to just sleep with people you aren't gonna be committed to; girls, or boys."

 "Dad, I _love_ him." Troy hopes that his dad can see it in his eyes that he's never been more serious about something. _Ryan is the one who was there for me when Gabriella wasn't, has_ always _been there for me, and I just didn't realize it. He's the one who helped me pick up the pieces. The one who showed me the way out of my cage._ Troy doesn't say any of those things, though. It's like Ryan told Sharpay; there's a time and place for going into depth, and it isn't _here_ , and it isn't _now_. Especially not when Ryan is sleeping soundly beside him. He opts instead to finish, hopefully succinctly, with, "And, he loves me."

 As Jack Bolton seems to search for the right response, his gray eyes looking over his son and the boy's bed partner, Ryan stirs beside Troy. His eyes flutter open, slits of blue peeking sleepily out at Troy. "What's…?" He murmurs softly, then, follows Troy's line of sight to the third occupant of the room. "Coach Bolton!" His eyes open wide. Drawing the quilt tighter around himself and Troy in a protective fashion, he moves to scramble upright.

 "Please, don't get up on my account."

 Ryan looks to Troy and at Troy's mouthing of, "It's okay", he settles back into position. Troy can tell by looking at the blond that his heart is racing a mile a minute, and he reaches out, finding Ryan's hand beneath the quilt and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

 "Sir, Troy was only… I-I got caught out in the rain, and he let me…"

 Troy feels his chest give a pang. Once again, Ryan is covering for him. _Protecting_ him.

 The senior Bolton male nods knowingly, and Troy swears he sees a faint twinkle of amusement in his eyes. Then, he says, "I hear you're the choreographer of the school musical."

 "Yes, sir." Ryan is rigid with trepidation, but he does his best to make eye-contact with his Phys Ed instructor and the father of his boyfriend. 

 "How's that going? My son isn't disappointing you with his two left feet, is he?"

 " _Daaad_ ," Troy groans half-heartedly, his cheeks heating with embarrassment.

 "Not at all. Troy's a natural." Ryan relaxes enough to give Jack Bolton a small smile. He then turns and directs that smile at Troy.

 "'A natural'." Jack Bolton's eyes meet his son's and a proud half-smile tugs at his lips. "Yeah, that's what I'm hearing."

 Troy can't help but vastly prefer this to the crushing tension between them when he first accidentally auditioned for the winter musical.

 "Well." Jack nods, breaking the eye-contact, and takes a moment to clear his throat and straighten out his emotions before continuing, "Your mom sent me in here to tell you boys that dinner will be ready in ten. So, wash up and make yourselves decent."

 "Yes, sir," Troy and Ryan murmur simultaneously.

 Once his father has exited the room, Troy lifts his quilt up and tosses it aside.

 "Your dad is very intimidating," Ryan says quietly, his eyes wide as if reliving those first few moments of terror upon waking up to find the tall frame of the basketball coach, who easily dwarfs both of them, standing at the end of the bed.

 "Yeah." Troy nods. "It's part of what makes him such an effective coach. Everyone's too scared of him to put up a protest when he orders the team to run laps. And, intimidating the other teams is a foolproof tactic, you know."

 Ryan stares at him in shock until Troy breaks into a playful smile. The shock is then replaced by an open-mouthed mixture of amazement and amusement that causes Troy's smile to evolve into a short burst of laughter. Laughter that seems fitting after how his unplanned and unexpected coming out to his father went down.

 Very lightly, Ryan nudges Troy with his shoulder, shaking his head and laughing softly, himself. After the laughter subsides, he adds, his smile not leaving his face, "He really does care about you, nonetheless."

 "Yeah." The statement has a surprising weight to it. Upon digestion, it brings a small smile to Troy's lips, and a warmth to his heart. Images of worried gray eyes, his dad teaching him how to perfect the dunking stance when he was six, his dad cheering him on in _Twinkle Towne_ and the Lava Springs talent show, and poignant recollections of his dad giving him advice that he overlooked while his head was submerged in a pool of thick, grey despondency, flash through his mind. "I know."

 Ryan gives him an affectionate gaze and soft smile, for a moment, then turns away from Troy and scans the walls of the former basketball player's bedroom. "You did a great job on those renovations." He pauses for a minute, brows furrowing thoughtfully, then says, affecting the tone the people on those home remodeling shows use, "The air is much lighter in here, now. And, the space is more open and less restrictive." Turning back to Troy, he adds mystically, "I feel that balance has been restored to your chi." Bringing his hands together, palms touching, fingers steepled, and dipping his head, he concludes his assessment.

 Troy laughs, because the imitation is spot on, and because, even though Ryan has never been in his room prior to this, he's right, all the same. The air _is_ lighter now, and the space is definitely much less restrictive. It really does feel like balance has been restored to his chi.

 As he leaps out of bed and helps Ryan get to his feet, he declares, once more fully aware of how cheesy it is, but unable to bother himself with caring, "Thanks. I like to call it 'The Start of Something New'."

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 

Somehow, Ryan pulls off a loose-fitting gray Wildcats sweat shirt that's two sizes too big for him just as well as everything else in his expansive wardrobe. The sleeves keep flopping down to cover his hands- Troy has to cuff them at the elbows, himself- and the hem of the shirt comes down far enough on his petite form that it could pass for a dress, but, Ryan makes it work.

 Troy thinks that East High colors look good on him, _really_ good, and reflects on the first time he saw Ryan donning their school's signature red and white.It was last summer at Lava Springs, the day after the staff softball game Troy had missed while participating in a scrimmage with the guys on the U of A basketball team. He caught Ryan and Gabriella dancing together and laughing by the club's pool, and had felt his heart drop into his stomach. The very first thing Ryan said after happily greeting him, something that caught Troy momentarily off-guard because if Ryan was trying to move in on his girlfriend, why would Ryan bother being friendly to him?, was, "My dad says you're doing great with those college guys".

 A compliment. A compliment that no one else had given him, that summer.

 "Let me help you with that, Mrs. Bolton." Ryan's voice, light and breezy, brings Troy back to the present. The present where he and his family just sat down to dinner with Ryan joining them as his _boyfriend_.

 Ryan swiftly collects up the dishes, stacking them neatly on top of each other in order of size. Troy starts, ready to assist him, but Ryan flashes him a smile to assure him that he's got it covered.

 "Why, thank you, Ryan," Troy's mother remarks, hand on her hip, obviously impressed. As Ryan carefully transports the stack into the kitchen to rinse the dishes off, his grip on the glassware firm and steady, Mrs. Bolton approaches Troy's seat at the dining room table. She says in an enchanted tone of voice that's quiet enough for only Troy to make out the words, "He helps set the table, has flawless table manners, clearly thinks the _world_ of you, _and_ helps with the dishes?" She touches Troy's backside and gives an approving nod in Ryan's direction as the sound of running water meets their ears. "That boy is a keeper, Troy. Don't let him slip through your fingers."

 "Don't worry, mom," Troy resolves. He remembers the way Ryan's face fell when he lashed out at him, that day, last summer, interpreting Ryan expressing his fondness for Gabriella's mom's brownies as some kind of attempt to usurp Troy's life, or proof that Ryan had feelings for Gabriella, rather than recognizing it as the well-meaning but clumsy attempt at conversation that it actually was.

 He remembers Ryan's eyes widening and Ryan ducking his head to conceal a smile as Troy apologized to him and acknowledged the hard work the blond had put into making the Wildcats look like a team of professional dancers.

 He thinks about how peaceful Ryan looks when he sleeps, how Ryan's entire face lights up when he's excited, his and Ryan's voices blending perfectly when they sing together, and how easy it is to dance with Ryan gently guiding and encouraging him.

 Now he knows that his parents love Ryan, or will come to love him, almost as much as he does. "I don't plan on it."

 

 8-8-8-8-8

 

 

"So, you and Evans, huh?" Chad crushes up his newly empty can of Sprite as he takes a seat beside Troy on the bleachers overlooking the football field.

 "Yeah," Troy replies, staring out at the stretch of grass that he used to practice several feet away from when the gym was being cleaned or used for other purposes, and the track that he would take off sprinting down to clear his head when he needed to take a break from monotonously shooting hoops. He can still remember the frigid chill in the air when he came out here early in the mornings to squeeze in some extra practice time. His breath puffing out in a smoky, vaporous cloud in front of him, the only sounds shattering the stillness before sunrise being his steady inhalations, and his feet rhythmically pounding on the pavement as he ran until his lungs burned and a sharp ache seized his left side.

 The red and white scoreboards at either end of the field catch his eye, and he thinks back on the scathing looks he and his teammates used to receive from members of the football team. They were so _envious_ that the basketball team got all the real attention and fanfare from the student body as a whole, from teachers, from the principal. It pissed them off to no end.

 He particularly recalls one instance where the team quarterback, Nick Butler, and a few of his underlings, were caught defacing a poster of Troy, Chad, Zeke and Jason. They received detention for a week for "vandalizing school property", and while Chad didn't take kindly to the rather lewd artistic decisions they had made to his "face" with black Sharpie, Troy didn't mind so much. In fact, he had to suppress the urge to rip posters of himself off of the walls, sometimes.

 "Was he…?" Chad implores, nose wrinkling.

 Troy welcomes the shifting of his thoughts toward pleasanter subject matter. "He was _amazing_. It was everything that you could ever hope your first time would be." He mulls over exactly how much of the experience he should share. Going into too much detail feels like it would be desecrating something that he and Ryan alone shared. Something private and intimate, and not meant to be discussed or laid out for analysis and entertainment in the vulgar style that his former teammates employed when bragging about their conquests. But, riling Chad up a little with a teaser of what happened wouldn't do any harm. "The sounds he made, the way he moved against me, it was all _so_ -"

 "Hey." Chad cuts him off with a jab of his finger at the precise point Troy hoped he would be cut off. "I didn't ask for a play-by-play containing all of the gory details."

 Troy smiles as his friend retracts his finger.

 His brown eyes studying Troy's face, Chad observes, "You seem happier."

 "I _am_ happier," Troy says without any hesitation. It's a truth that he can feel reverberating in the hollow of his chest.

 "Because of Evans?"

 "Yeah. Ryan, just…" It's difficult to articulate the _why_ s and the _how_ s, but he manages, "I don't know where I would be without him."

 "Well…" Chad huffs out a breath, reclining back against the cold metal of the bleachers. "I guess mind-blowing sex, and being with someone who makes you happy, is the most that you can ask for from a relationship."

 Troy feels that while Chad is right, that those are fundamental components to a successful romantic partnership, there are a few more things you can ask for. Mutual support and understanding of each other, someone who helps you to grow and realize your full potential, and you helping them to do the same. A best friend. A constant. Someone who makes breakfast for you without being asked, and offers you shelter from the storm raging in your mind and heart without any hesitation.

 He doesn't voice these higher aspirations, though. Chad is giving him and Ryan his blessing, and, with Chad, that _is_ the most that he can ask for. "Thanks, man."

 "Yeah." It's more of a scoff than anything else, but Troy can still pick up on the underlying sincerity. Chad is happy for him.

 "I'm happy for you and Taylor, too," Troy says, reaching over to give his friend's shoulder a squeeze.

 "Thanks," Chad mumbles. Despite his mumbling, the smile that tugs at his lips is genuine. Suddenly, he grabs his basketball that he never goes anywhere without, off of the bleachers beside him, and rises to his feet.

 Troy shoots him a puzzled look, confused at his friend's out of nowhere desire to get moving. He knows that affection and sentimentality aren't Chad's strongest points, but they were having a moment.

 "You still have to go pick up your prom tux, right?" Chad goes on without waiting for a response, "Get your ass moving, Bolton."

 Troy breaks into a grin and hops earnestly to his feet. Along the way to his truck, he makes sure to pitch Chad's emptied soda can into the nearest trash receptacle.

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

 After two grueling hours spent in the library, hunched over test booklets with only a ten minute break midway to use the toilet, or stretch their legs, Troy and Ryan reconvene out in the parking lot.

 "How was it?" Troy asks.

 "Nerve-wracking," Ryan replies. "But," he lets out a breath, tension easing off of his shoulders, and adds with newfound confidence, "I think I did okay. How about you?"

 "It was easier than I anticipated, thanks to my awesome teacher." Troy holds up his hand, smiling encouragingly, and a beaming Ryan knows exactly what to do.

 He meets Troy's hand with his own, their fingers interlacing, and moves into the taller boy until their noses are almost touching. "You're going to do great on your Calculus exam. I just know it. With your acute perspicaciousness, you'll ace that exam in fifteen minutes flat."

 "And still have plenty of time for rehearsals?" Troy prompts with a laugh.

 " _More_ than plenty." 

 Opening night is only days away. Dress rehearsals have since begun, and the air is weighty with anticipation and excitement every time the cast meets in the auditorium. Even Chad, Zeke, Jason, and Taylor, who were the most vocally opposed to partaking in the school musical, are swept up in the infectious charges pinging off of Troy, Ryan, Sharpay, Kelsi, Martha, Tiara and Jimmie. Ms. Darbus's eyes shine with pride as she reminds them all of how well everything has come together despite the hurdles they've had to surmount along the way, how much they've accomplished, and that, while scouts from Juilliard sitting in at the show is quite a big deal for the four scholarship applicants, they shouldn't be discouraged from pursuing a career in show business if they are not the lucky recipient.

 "I've learned from experience that when the stage calls to you, when you, in turn, feel a certain gnawing ache for it, you will find a way onto it, to bask in the warm glow of the lights overhead, to bravely explore as many opportunities as a life in the theatre offers, regardless of whether or not a scholarship to a performing arts school is awarded to you." Her gaze passed over Sharpay, Kelsi, and Ryan, encompassing all of them, before seeming to rest on Troy.

 Troy _did_ feel a gnawing ache in his chest, something almost like a hunger.

 At first, he thought it was only a desire to be with Gabriella, to have something in common with her, that contributed to his decision to do the callback audition for the winter musical. But, then there was the Lava Springs talent show, then the spring musical. And, Gabriella insisting that he "loved", performing, Ryan and Kelsi calling him their "star", and Ryan, Ms. Darbus, and even his dad telling him that he was a "natural" performer. Even Sharpay deemed him "special".

 He tried to picture his life without basketball, and, every time, the Troy that he envisioned in this hypothetical basketball-less life was happier, not bogged down by expectations, and had been friends with Ryan and Kelsi right from the start, because he wasn't already attached to a clique that considered association with "drama geeks", "beneath them".

 In that moment, as Ms. Darbus's eyes were fixed intently on him, hoping that the message she meant to send was registering, Troy tried to picture his life without theater, and realized that he _couldn't_. He simply couldn't picture a future where he wasn't involved with performing in some way, where he wasn't "heeding the call".

 He asked Ryan if that was how it was for him, and the reply was an immediate, emphatic, "Yes. Yeah, it was! Shar and I knew from as early as three that performing was always going to be a part of our lives. And, we didn't want it any other way."

 That conversation was what lead to Troy typing in "colleges with theater programs", into Google's search engine on Ryan's light blue Macbook Pro. And, that search lead Troy to the homepage of the website for the University of California, Berkeley.

 He looked up pictures of the vast campus, took in the really cool looking gate at the front of the building, read that, "In a National Research Council analysis of 212 doctoral programs at American universities, 48 Berkeley programs place among the top 10 nationwide", and then remembered the distance between California and New York. It's over two thousand miles, meaning that, even though there are on-campus museums, a hall of science, and what looks to be extensive and awesome departments of theater and music, the school wasn't even a remote possibility. 

 As Ryan approached him, a completely guileless smile on his face, guilt clenched Troy's stomach and he quickly clicked off of the page.

 "What's wrong?" Ryan asked, ascertaining that something was amiss. Troy should have known that he couldn't hide things from Ryan.

 "Hey, Ry," Troy ventured, forcing his voice to be steadier than his emotions were. "When you said you sent applications to schools in California, for me, was Berkeley one of them?"

 Ryan's brows furrowed as he thought back. "Yeah. It's a great school, and I figured they deserve to know that you exist." He took a step forward, looking like he meant to join Troy on the bed, but then froze and hung back, uncertainty filling his features. "Was-Was that a step out of bounds, or something?" Shame deepened the blue of his eyes. "If it is, I'm _really_ sorry. I…"

 "No, no. It wasn't a step out of bounds." Troy promised, cutting off the train of self-deprecating thoughts before it could leave the station. "C' mere." He opened his arms up, inviting the blond to snuggle in. Ryan took the invitation, and they settled back against the pillows. "Ry," Troy implored after a moment of silence, "you know that Berkeley is two thousand, five hundred sixty-one point eight miles away from Juilliard, right?" _And thirty-two point seven miles from_ her _._

 "I know," Ryan had said simply, and that was the end of it, as far as Troy was concerned. The rest of that day had been spent getting lost in the endless library of funny cat videos on Youtube.

 Ryan's assurance that he'll ace his AP Calc exam causes Troy to wonder, just for a second, if his score would ensure him placement in one of the doctoral programs that rank among the top ten nationwide, even sans Ryan's prodigious vocabulary.

 And, then he promptly scolds himself for even considering it.

 Juilliard is Ryan's dream, and if New York is where Ryan is meant to go, then Troy _will_ be right there with him.

 "So…" Using their hands still linked at the fingers, Troy steers Ryan toward his truck. "There's a certain school function coming up, and, while having a date to accompany you to this function isn't mandatory, it _is_ the preferred option."

 "Oh?" Ryan's brows arc curiously.

 "See, the date that I was supposed to have left me in the lurch, and I was wondering if an amazingly hot blond actor would be willing to escort me instead, maybe share a dance with me?"

 Ryan's eyes glow with delight. "I'm _positive_ that the blond actor you're referring to is available."

 "Really?" Troy means to feign surprise, but, he acknowledges with a pang in his chest, the reaction is much more genuine than he intended. "He doesn't have other plans with better looking guys?"

 "Troy, it would be a _dream come true_ to go to the prom with you." Ryan moves in close enough to affectionately butt Troy's shoulder with his head, his voice brimming with joy and mild disbelief. "And, as far as I can tell," he adds, "you are, _by far_ , the most prepossessing man in the entire state of New Mexico. Probably even in the whole of the universe."

 Warmth immediately fills Troy's cheeks, and he grins bashfully.

 As if the thought occurred to him out of the blue, Ryan lets out a nervous laugh. "There is just one thing, though…" His face blanches.

 Troy leans in, eyebrows pulling together curiously.

 

 


	4. Part 4

_ Parachute _

 

4.

 

 

_Going to prom as a group isn't a bad thing_ , Troy reflects. They were still badgered for pictures by their parents, as reaching for the camera is just what parents do when their kids are all dolled up, and a couple of eyebrows were raised and speculating whispers began to make the rounds in the gym when Troy Bolton walked in with the two less popular members of the drama club on his arm. But, Ryan had offered to escort Kelsi to the prom, and, unlike a certain someone, Ryan follows up on his commitments. A fact that brings on a kind of queasy feeling in Troy's center.

Thankfully, though, as the night progresses, no one asks about Gabriella. Maybe it's because he has Ryan there to deflect anyone who tries to breach the topic, or because Troy sweeps a blushing and giddy Kelsi onto the dance floor when a couple approaches him, questions gleaming in their eyes.

Kelsi is light and graceful on her feet as they cross the floor, her grip on Troy's hand tight, and when their eyes meet as she takes a place in front of him, Troy sees a glow that the contacts that Kelsi put in, just for the occasion, can't conceal. It's in her eyes, and in the faint pink that paints her cheeks.

From that glow, he kind of gets the impression that attending the senior prom with Troy Bolton is as much a "dream come true", for Kelsi as it is for Ryan.

Kelsi asks softly, "You doing okay there, Hoopsman?"

Troy answers confidently, "Yeah," and proceeds to do his best to be the most amazing- third wheel -prom date he can be. He tells her, "You look great, Playmaker", without any of the obvious dishonesty he had when he told Chad that Sharpay was "pretty cute". Because he means it. Kelsi's white and apricot dress is elegant and airy, flattering, and her bangs have been curled so they frame her face. The rest of her curly brunette hair is pulled up into a bun and ornamented by a sheer, white, tissue-like accessory.

Kelsi has always been pretty. Her glasses never obscured this. However, Troy has a suspicion that, like Ryan, Kelsi has never had anyone _tell_ her that she's pretty. That line in the spring musical where all the guys remark that she's "so fine", doesn't exactly count.

His suspicion is proven accurate when the faint pink filling Kelsi's cheeks turns a shade darker at his words. A mistiness creeps over the edges of her turquoise-colored eyes, and her hand shakes a little in his grasp.

Before the moment can be ruined by "What ifs", and "Could have beens", Troy twirls her out and brings her in close. The action is executed so quickly, it catches her off-guard. When their eyes meet again, hers are wide, and her brows are slightly crinkled with confusion. But, as he gives her a reassuring grin, and reminds her, "Hey. No tears at prom, right?", her smile returns.

Troy takes the lead, steering Kelsi gently to the tempo of the music pouring out of the speaker system- "Everywhere", by Michelle Branch- and letting her rest her head against his chest during the slower parts.

She's not the lively, encouraging, expertly trained partner that Ryan is, the confident, energetic partner that Gabriella was, or as commanding and forceful as Sharpay. From Kelsi, he gets the same quiet, accommodating sweetness and passion that he's grown accustomed to since the day he helped her to her feet and assisted her in collecting her pages of scattered sheet music. The same quiet passion that guided him during rehearsals for the callback audition, their junior year, and offered him sympathy and understanding when the rest of the Wildcats shunned him, that summer at Lava Springs. The same accommodating sweetness that she showed him when he was struggling to cope with Gabriella's absence.

As Troy places his hands on Kelsi's waist, her scent hits his nose. It's floral. Orchids? with a tiny trace of raspberry. The fabric of the flowery designs on her dress is soft against his fingertips, and he feels comfortable, at ease, as they sway serenely on the gymnasium floor.

But, there's a familiar ache in his chest and the pit of his stomach, a feeling that something is missing.

Troy glances behind him and immediately locates the pair of sky-colored eyes that he was looking for. The black bowler hat, the beige suit and sequin adorned black tie, the blond hair, the soft features set in a fair-skinned face. Ryan meets his gaze, eyes bright. He sends Troy a reassuring smile, and Troy smiles back.

He makes sure to give Kelsi one final twirl across the floor before the song comes to an end. Kelsi's expression is warm, grateful, and Troy's heart misses a beat with happiness because he's responsible for it.

As he and Kelsi make their way back to Ryan, Principal Matsui and Taylor McKessie, the senior class president, take the makeshift stage at the far end of the gym. Taylor hands the older man a microphone, which he takes with a grateful smile.

"Attention students!" Principal Matsui declares into the microphone.

There's minimal feedback that rings in Troy's ears and causes Ryan to wince, but the call, itself, is enough. Conversations are put on hold and the smatterings of laughter clustered throughout the room break off. All eyes turn to the two figures onstage.

"The votes have been tallied, and we are _very_ pleased to announce the winners of this year's Prom King and Queen."

An enthusiastic cheer is sent up. Troy takes a seat beside Ryan and notes the blond scanning the crowd, murmuring anxiously to himself, "Oh boy."

Principal Matsui waits for everyone to quiet down before resuming, "Could the candidates for the titles please join us up here?"

Taylor leans in, her voice clear and booming as she adds, "That would be Zeke Baylor."

With a wide grin on his face, Zeke detaches himself from Sharpay and jogs through the throng to ascend the steps on the right side of the stage.

"Chad Danforth."

The crowd parts to allow Chad passage. He swaggers through, smirking proudly and nodding at the approving claps and whoops that his name receives. Troy can't help but let out his own cheer on behalf of his friends.

"And, our write-in entry- Troy Bolton."

It seems like all sound has faded out from the world. Troy's head is swimming, his stomach flipping over itself. Shakily, he gets to his feet. Before he can find the right words to question the utterance of his name, the sound comes rushing back.

Disgruntled murmurs reach his ears. Glares score the sides of his face and bore into his head. _Again._

Kelsi glances back and forth between Troy and the disapproving congregation, confusion etched onto her features.

Ryan stands up and shifts in closer to Troy. His muscles are rigid, and Troy feels that searing heat, once more. The heat that he now recognizes as Ryan glaring right back, silently daring their peers to attempt to express their objection through physical means. To even _try_ to lay a hand on Troy.

Deep pink catches Troy's eye and he can see Sharpay looking on, observing the reactions to Troy Bolton's name.

Troy Bolton, the _former_ Primo Boy at East High.

A guy next to Sharpay starts muttering something to his prom date, only to, much to Troy's shock, be cut off by a scowl from the blonde theater queen.

Slowly, Troy exhales. He gives Sharpay a nod and shoots Ryan a look of gratitude, taking the smaller boy's hand into his and squeezing it softly.

"Do you…?" Ryan begins, searching Troy's eyes.

"I'll be fine," Troy promises. With a half-smile, he gently takes his hand away. Under the weight of the trenchant stares, he straightens the lapels of his blazer and runs his fingers through his bangs. Ryan's hands, steady, assured, fix Troy's tie and _boutonnière_. Ryan's legs, however, are shaking, and his eyes betray his fear.

Kelsi squeezes Troy's arm. Appreciative of her warmth, and the solidarity the contact demonstrates, Troy touches her shoulder, dragging his fingers lightly along her bare skin, before making his way through the crowd and up onto the stage.

The entire walk, he is aware of eyes on him. But, the only pair that matters, are the soft sky blues, framed by neatly groomed brows that are knitted with worry. His dress shoes click loudly on the gymnasium floor, drowning out his pounding heartbeat and the blood pulsing in his temples. He reflects on how strange it is that the last time he crossed this floor with his heart pounding and blood pulsing, he was in a Wildcats uniform.

Now…

Troy takes a position beside Chad, who flashes him a look of bewilderment. Although, whether that bewilderment is because of Troy's name being called as a write-in candidate, or due to the response from the masses, Troy isn't sure. Troy briefly meets his friend's eyes, hoping to convey how much he truly doesn't want to be up here. After all, he didn't even _campaign_ for prom king.

"And, for Prom Queen," Taylor goes on, indifferent to the mild commotion, "Sharpay Evans".

Sharpay struts through the still divided crowd. Her admirers cast longing stares in her wake, and Ryan and Kelsi manage small, proud smiles.

Troy feels movement from his right side. He glances over to see Chad not-so-subtly training his eyes on Sharpay as she ascends the stage and smiles photogenically, and regally, Troy supposes, out at their peers.

During their sophomore year, Chad and Sharpay had a go at dating each other. Things quickly fizzled out, to no one's shock, but Troy has had suspicions for a while that Chad never completely got over the blonde Drama Club president.

He honestly prefers Chad being with Taylor, mostly because Taylor never manhandled him, or yanked his shirt up to expose his stomach, and Taylor doesn't refer to Chad as a "basketball robot".

But, Chad not being able to stop himself from staring at Sharpay as she strikes a pose for her "adoring public", or whatever she calls it, causes Troy's lips to quirk just the tiniest bit with amusement.

"Martha Cox."

The stocky brunette girl looks to Jason, who beams proudly. She leans into him with a giggle, and then prances over to join Sharpay on the right side of the makeshift stage.

"And, Gabriella Montez, who, sadly, due to circumstances beyond our control, could not be here, tonight." The note of sorrow in Taylor's voice is barely masked.

Whispers start up, once again, along with a few sounds of dismay.

Troy feels accusatory gazes on him, blaming him for Gabriella's absence. His eyes fall to his shoes and he resists the urge to outwardly squirm. It's not his fault she couldn't be a "little adult", and come down for the prom, or show up for graduation, or participate in the school musical. That's what Ryan said. Gabriella made up her mind, resolved to abandon her obligations, her friends, her _boyfriend_ , and it wasn't Troy's fault.

He… he has _nothing_ to be ashamed of.

This is what Troy repeats to himself as he sucks in a breath to steady himself. As he seeks out Ryan and the blond mouths, "It's okay, Troy". As Principal Matsui and Taylor open an envelope and pull out the slip of paper that reveals the identities of the prom king and queen.

"Your Prom King and Prom Queen are…" Principal Matsui pauses for dramatic effect. Troy thinks to himself that Ms. Darbus would be proud. "Chad Danforth and Sharpay Evans!"

Chad and Sharpay take their cue to step forward, both of them beaming as they bask in the cheers and thunderous applause. Troy claps, as much for his bushy-haired best friend as the girl who, if everything works out, will be his future sister in-law.

From their tiny space out in the audience, Ryan and Kelsi show their approval by putting their hands together, as well.

Principal Matsui crowns Chad, the crown perching awkwardly on the athlete's curls.

Taylor places the silvery tiara on Sharpay's head. Troy can feel an unspoken level of tension between the girls, tension of the tight-lipped, "I-don't-like-you-and-you-don't-like-me", variety that puts him ill at ease and has him bracing for flinging insults and glares that could cleave right through a person.

Perhaps for the occasion, though, or to maintain their reputations among the student body, the two girls make as little eye-contact as possible, say nothing to each other, and as soon as the tiara is sitting atop Sharpay's head of golden blonde, Taylor quickly puts distance between herself and the theater queen.

Troy can almost feel the relief racing through her.

When it's announced that the floor be cleared to give the Prom King and  Queen space for their dance, Troy is nearly rendered nauseous by the force of his relief at no longer being the subject of scrutinizing, at being free to fade into the background, because he's _just a guy_. Not the prom king. And, not the school's "hero", anymore.

Sharpay slips her arm into the crook of Chad's. Her pristine smile slips from her face only long enough to direct him, "You better not step on my feet."

"Hey," Chad retorts, "how about giving me a little more credit than that, Ice Princess."

They take the floor together and begin swaying rather stiffly to David Archuleta's "Crush".

"So, who did you bribe to get those votes?" Troy can hear Chad teasing Sharpay.

"Will you just shut up and dance?" She snaps back, but, surprisingly, with not quite as much hostility as Troy would have expected.

Martha makes her way back to Jason, so Troy follows suite and slips discreetly off the makeshift stage, returning to Ryan and Kelsi.

"Are you okay?" Ryan asks. He takes the hand that Troy offers him and intertwines their fingers, searching Troy's gaze intently.

"Yeah." Troy's heart is still beating a little too fast, but it's not a lie.

"You know," Ryan says, running a soft, caressing hand down Troy's cheek. A few people are giving them looks of disgust, but the two boys remain entirely unfazed. "Prom King is a pretty meaningless title, anyway. But…" He touches his nose to Troy's. His voice brims with honesty and meaningfulness. "I would have voted for you, if you'd campaigned."

"I know you would have," Troy says, savoring Ryan's closeness, the sweet, minty scent of his breath. How it managed to evade his notice that Ryan was always on his side, he'll never understand. But, he knows _now_ , and he hopes that's enough. 

The rest of that night puts Troy's unease and Ryan's fear far from mind. Kind of like those feelings are being stored in boxes of their own to be misplaced and forgotten.

Troy catches smiles- _legitimate smiles_ \- on Chad and Sharpay's faces before they finish their customary dance as the school's new royalty, and return to their none too pleased dates.

Ryan shares a dance with Kelsi to "Wannabe", by the Spice Girls. They laugh and smile as they spin around in a sort of swing step, and when Ryan shakes his ever-so captivating hips on each " _Zig a zig ah_ ", Kelsi almost doubles over with laughter, her cheeks flushing.

Chucky Brown, one of the former senior members of the basketball team, and Dylan Hughes, a brunette senior and back-up dancer for the school musical, approach Troy and Ryan.

"Hey, man," Chucky says. "You were really brave for getting up on that stage after everyone reacted like that."

"Thank you," Troy says slowly, more than slightly caught off guard. He exchanges a glance with Ryan to find his surprise mirrored back at him, along with a cautious smile.

"Yeah, and you guys make a great couple," Dylan chimes in.

"Thanks," Ryan murmurs at the same time Troy gives the other brunette a small smile.

It isn't much, but as Troy and Ryan meet each other's eyes, there's a silent acknowledgement between them that two people voicing their support is a better turn out than either Troy, or Ryan, judging from his response, could have anticipated from students attending a high school in the southern half of the United States.

Kyle Ladner, a member of East High's band, shyly steps in to ask Kelsi for a dance.

 With a faint look of surprise, Kelsi glances back and forth between Troy and Ryan, looking for permission. Ryan gives her a smile and a nod, and Troy, grinning, gestures for her to go ahead. Sheepish smile tugging at her lips, she obliges.

At last, Troy gets to share a dance with Ryan, to Christina Milian's "AM to PM".

Ryan's footwork is brisk, complex. He effortlessly sways his hips and moves his head, his shoulders, and then his entire body to the beat in movements so fluid, they're hypnotizing. Troy's movements aren't quite as refined, he's sure that no one but Ryan is hypnotized by the motions of his body, but he can't be bothered to care. Ryan's hand is in his, they're perfectly in-synch with each other, like they've danced together for years, and, in that moment, they're the only two people in the room.

In the world.

Even the rest of their classmates appear to be caught up in the joy of the occasion, of one of their last nights as students at East High School, as _Wildcats_. For the rest of the night, no one makes any rude remarks. Troy is able to pose for pictures with Ryan and Kelsi, and then with just Ryan as "Kiss Me", by Sixpence None The Richer, plays in the background. Troy's arm is around Ryan's shoulders, and Troy can feel Ryan's arm resting on his lower back.   

It's not how he envisioned spending his senior prom at the start of senior year, or even a few months ago, but Troy reasons that this reality is even better than anything he could have imagined.

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

Troy wakes that morning with the memory of Ryan's lips on his, to find that he fell asleep in his dress shirt and dress pants. He has a brief moment of panic over wrinkling the pants- _Fuck, that tux cost a_ fortune _!_ \- and scrambles to change into a pair of jeans, and a pull a flannel on over top of a white tank top.

"Troy, honey!" His mom calls from the other side of his bedroom door, "There's a letter for you on the kitchen counter."

Troy pauses for a minute. _A letter?_ Then it hits him; maybe one of the colleges in New York responded to him. Maybe he's been accepted! He runs into the kitchen, sliding across the floor and coming to a stop at the counter, where he grabs the envelope sitting on top of it.

It's from Berkeley University, in California. Troy feels his heart skip a beat. Of all the colleges he and Ryan have talked to, this wasn't the one he was hoping to hear back from.

Part of him wants to put the letter down, pretend he never received it. If he doesn't know what it says, he can still walk away from this. Another part of him knows that ignorance, not knowing, is _awfu_ l, and that there is a tiny piece of him that would like to see if he was good enough, that wouldn't be satisfied if he put the letter down without opening it.

Like a coward. Just like the Other Troy in his nightmare accused him of being.

Swallowing his trepidation, he tears open the envelope and removes the letter. He pours over its contents, quickly, like removing a bandaid, and when his brain processes a certain word beginning with the letter 'a',  his heart stops.

"Well, what does it say?" His mom asks from over by the coffee maker.

Troy feels the color drain from his face. 

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

Ryan is at the doors to greet him when Troy arrives at East High. It's the final day before opening night, and Kelsi , Ms. Darbus,  Ryan, and a few members of the crew are there to make sure everything is in its place before the curtain opens, tomorrow night.

"The text you sent me said you wanted to talk about something, and that it was urgent," Ryan says. His voice is even as always, and Troy wants to surrender to those even tones, envelope himself in them until his heart stops racing and it doesn't feel like his world is falling apart around him, anymore. Ryan's eyes study Troy's face carefully, solicitously. He reaches out, laying a comforting hand on Troy's shoulder. "Troy, baby, what's wrong?" 

Troy hates that he has to interrupt Ryan in the middle of something important. Hasn't he already done enough to mess up this show? But, a storm is raging inside of him. He can still recall how it felt to be the last one to learn of Gabriella's admission into the Freshman Honors Program at Stanford; that weight on his chest and stomach, that twisting feeling that he wasn't important enough to Gabriella to be informed right away, that she couldn't be upfront with him because she "knew what he would say". He _refuses_ to inflict those feelings on Ryan. "I got into the University of California, Berkeley," he finally gets out.

"You got into _Berkeley_?" Ryan exclaims, astonished. He cups his hands over the bridge of his nose.

Troy nods, a bashful smile playing on his lips.

"Troy, that's _tremendous_! I'm _so proud_ of you!" Eyes shining, Ryan moves his hands from his face and touches one hand to his chest, over his heart, then takes Troy into an embrace. The joy and pride, not annoyance, or sadness, or _anger_ , gushing from his center are practically tangible.

Troy wraps his arms around the blond and rests his cheek against the smaller boy's temple. As much as he would love to get swept up in Ryan's celebration of this accomplishment, as much as wants to squeeze Ryan tightly, spin him around, laugh ecstatically, and begin looking up condos within walking distance of the beach, he can't help but be reminded of two chairs in the fourth row of the center section of the auditorium at East High. Chairs with signs on them that proudly declare in ornamental typeface, 'Reserved For Juilliard'.

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

Ryan relays to Troy over the phone that Berkeley has an on-campus botanical garden.

Troy repeats this to Chad while they're at the Danforth house. Chad is sprawled out on his bed, fiddling with his basketball, and Troy spins first one way, then the other, in the swivel chair located near Chad's entertainment system. "You know that Berkeley has an on-campus botanical garden?"

"So, what's the problem, then?" Chad asks, trying and failing to get the ball to spin on his little finger.

"The problem is that Berkeley is two thousand, five hundred sixty-one point eight miles away from Juilliard. It might as well be in another country." In Troy's mind, he visualizes the massive expanse of land stretching out between New York and California. Cracks appear, splitting the land mass down the middle, and water streams in to fill the cracks. The pressure of the rushing water widens the cracks at a terrific speed. The ground shakes and the fissure grows. Rocks, soil, sand, and the topmost layer of the earth's crust shift and break audibly. It's like the division of Pangea, all over again. And, he and Ryan, trapped at opposite ends, unable to reach each other, are drifting apart…

 "It's not even a done deal that he's going to get into Juilliard, though."

While Chad has a point, Troy knows that he could never hope that the Juilliard scholarship doesn't work out for Ryan. He heard the dreamy intonation Ryan's voice adopted when just _talking_ about the performing arts school.

No. He can't and he _won't_.

He must have wordlessly conveyed this, because Chad ceases playing with his basketball and sits up. He studies Troy's face, his brown eyes softening just faintly. "What about you going to a college in New York?"

"I _tried_. Ryan has, too. He's sent emails and applications, and…"

"And, nothing."

It isn't a question, but Troy stops swiveling the chair, and confirms, "The only place I got a response from is Berkeley." He looks to Chad, unsure if he's seeking advice, an answer, or just reassurance.

Ryan would provide him with all three.

"So, what are you gonna do?" Chad asks.

"I don't know, man." In his mind's eye, Troy can see the land masses that he and Ryan are on drifting further apart. He remembers walking to Gabriella's house to find a "For Sale" sign out front, when she didn't show up at school, that day. He was helpless to do anything at all, then. _This time_ , however… "But, I'll do whatever I have to, to stay by his side."

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

It's the night before the school musical. The night before Ryan is to go onstage, perform his heart out, hope that the rest of his cast mates nail every move that he painstakingly spent hours choreographing, and cross his fingers that it was enough. That the Juilliard scouts see his talent and endless potential.

It's a _lot_ of pressure, maybe even more pressure than what was placed on Troy's shoulders as the basketball team captain when it came time to call the shots during a state championship game. "Nervous?" Troy asks. He can feel the tension in Ryan's muscles beneath his fingertips, and begins kneading into the blond's shoulders.

"Extremely," Ryan answers. He rolls his neck gratefully, and takes a small sip of tea. His hands shake as they clasp at his mug.

"Don't be. All of those assholes who tried to keep you down? Tomorrow, you're going to show them just how _wrong_ they were."

Ryan is silent for a moment. He swishes another sip of tea pensively in his mouth before swallowing and venturing, "Troy, do you remember what I said before, about it being okay and human to be upset when someone hurts you?"

"Yeah." How could he ever forget? It was the first time that anyone had ever told him that Gabriella wasn't the innocent victim, and that he wasn't the selfish, inconsiderate aggressor.

"Sometimes… sometimes that anger, that bitterness toward the people who hurt you, is what drives you to better yourself. To succeed. To prove everything they said about you and your dreams wrong. And I want you to know that, even if you feel bad for holding a grudge, or even if you can't find it in you to hold a grudge, in the first place, you should _never_ let the fear of upsetting other people hold you back from achieving your dreams and being all that you can be. A wise man once said; 'Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.'."

"Bernard M. Baruch, right?" Troy murmurs, working his way down and along Ryan's collarbone. He can hear a barely stifled moan trying to escape Ryan's throat.

"Yeah. Bernard M. Baruch." Ryan smiles, happy and proud. "Most people mistakenly attribute that quote to Dr. Seuss."

"Where on earth would I be without your sage-like wisdom?" Troy asks, not a trace of dishonesty, or humor, or sarcasm, or anything but utmost sincerity backing his words. Because he honestly doesn't know.

"Hey, now." Ryan ducks his head, letting out a modest laugh. "I'm far from 'sage-like'."

"Your rank at the top of our AP English class begs to differ." Troy presses a kiss to Ryan's cheek and in the crook of Ryan's neck as his hands slip beneath the collar of the blond's plum-colored dress shirt. "I'm so sorry you had to learn all of that from experience," he says in just above a whisper. He feels his heart ache as images of everything Ryan must have endured over the years- alienation from his prejudiced peers, his parents and everyone else showing favoritism to his sister, fists, knees, names viciously spat at him, trying to bring him down- fill his mind.

His rubbing turns into caressing the silky smooth skin on Ryan's chest in the hopes of trying to erase some of the pain, to heal wounds that the eye can't see, and Ryan leans into his touch, muscles relaxing like a tight coil that is gently becoming unwound.

"Don't be." Ryan's voice is light, not quavering, or burdened with harrowing memories. "One day, I know I'm going to forgive everyone who ever hurt me, and maybe even be grateful to them, because they set me on a road that led me here. To you." 

Troy swallows hard. His hands tremble and his throat constricts. "L-Like that Rascal Flatts song. "Broken Road"."

" _Exactly_ like "Broken Road"." Ryan leans comfortably into Troy's touch.

"Hey, lovebirds. Enough with the PDA, already!" Sharpay barks.

Troy and Ryan both jolt, and Troy pulls his hands out of Ryan's shirt, clearing his throat. Ryan takes another sip of his tea, pretending rather convincingly that there was nothing untoward going on.

"I'm ordering a pizza," Sharpay goes on, dialing a number into the keypad of her cellphone. "Is pepperoni okay with you?"

"Fine by me," Troy replies as Ryan answers, "Yeah."

An hour later, the three of them are sitting in the den, slices of piping hot, freshly delivered pizza on their plates, dressed in their pajamas. Ryan is on the sofa, clad comfortably in Troy's red and white baseball t-shirt, and plushy sweats. Troy sits beside him in a t-shirt and flannel pajama pants, a pull over sweater in his lap, just in case the nighttime chill gets to him. And, Sharpay, much to Troy's surprise, isn't dressed in the lacy, revealing nightgown he expected from the stories some of the guys on the football team used to tell about her in the locker room, during gym class.

Instead, she wears a light pink pajama top and matching bottoms, both monogramed with her signature, like the majority of her possessions, and covered in hearts, a deep pink robe, and pink dog slippers, complete with rhinestones dotting the the fluffy pink dog's face and torso.

Troy leans into Ryan to whisper between bites of pizza, "Who would have guessed that your sister wears more to bed than I do?"

Ryan fails to conceal his smile, and the laugh that leaves him at the comment. "You could say that she's full of surprises. Or, that people talk a lot of shit about things they don't understand."

"Couldn't agree more with that." Troy breaks into a smile that Ryan returns, and they clink their glasses of strawberry flavored sparkling water together.

"So, Troy…" Sharpay sets down her glass of iced tea, and scoots forward a few inches on the chair that she's seated in with her legs folded.

"Hm?"

"I just want to say that you've made a lot of progress, these last couple of weeks. Ryan was right about you."

Troy is caught off guard, but he accepts the compliment, all the same. "Thank you." He gives Sharpay a nod and turns to Ryan with a grateful smile.

Ryan smiles back softly, eyes gleaming with pride.

Sharpay waves off Troy's gratitude. "Yes, well, as I'm sure you know, tomorrow night's show is _very_ important to me."

Ryan clears his throat sharply, one brow arched, as he takes another bite of his now cheese pizza. He gave Troy all of the pepperoni slices.

"Er, _us_ ," Sharpay amends. The light in her brown eyes is heated, passionate, as she finishes definitively, "So you _better_ not screw up."

Troy meets her gaze head on. His voice is steady. "I don't plan to," he says simply. Not when Ryan's future is on the line.

"Good." The queen bitch persona immediately slips away, and Sharpay sits back on the chair, picking up the slice of pizza on her plate and biting into it.

"Sis, don't you think, maybe, people have put enough pressure on Troy for one school year?" Ryan speaks up, his light voice confident, assured. "He's _not_ going to mess up the show. We've been over this. Ease off of him, okay?"

"Ryan, as admirable as it is that you always rush to Troy's defense, you can't let yourself forget that, as far as the scouts from Juilliard are concerned, he's your _rival_ the moment those curtains open."

"No, he's _not_." Ryan's voice hardens so suddenly, Troy finds himself taken aback, his heart leaping into his throat.

Even Sharpay seems startled by the ferocity backing her brother's words. She jolts, eyes widening.

"Being a star is important to me, too, Sharpay," Ryan goes on. His eyes mist and a tremor creeps into his voice. "But there are other things in life that matter. I wish you would stop pretending you don't know that as well as I do." He stares into his sister's eyes for a moment, chest heaving, jaw set, before setting his plate down, and leaving the room.

Troy stares after him. "Ryan?" He calls. He has no idea how things escalated to this, and he searches himself for a solution, for how to fix whatever just went wrong.

Sharpay shakes her head. "Temperamental as ever," Troy hears her muttering as he takes off after Ryan.

Troy finds the male Evans twin in the kitchen, his back to the entrance, bowed over the sink. "Ryan," he starts, "I'm sorry. I-"

"You don't have to apologize for anything." Ryan turns around to meet Troy's eyes. His cheeks puff out as he exhales, shoulders sagging. "She's so _frustrating_. I love her, but… she's just so-"

"Difficult?" Troy supplies. He crosses the floor to Ryan's side.

"Well…" The tiniest hint of a smile tugs at the corners of Ryan's mouth. "That's one way of putting it."

A smile tugs at Troy's lips, as well, at the sight of it. He leans against the counter, his shoulder brushing against Ryan's. "Thanks for what you said, in there."

"Don't mention it. After hearing people assume the worst of someone you care about, for so long, you get tired of it, you know?"

For neither the first, nor the last time, Troy wonders what he did to be deserving of Ryan's love. "I'm going to do my best in the show, tomorrow," he resolves.

Ryan looks up, his eyes locking on Troy's. The blue of his irises has darkened, and the mistiness has returned. "I never expected anything less from you," he says softly. He reaches out, hand caressing Troy's cheek as it roams to the back of the former athlete's head to stroke through his hair. Troy takes this as a cue to lean in, right as Ryan closes off the distance and brings their lips crashing softly together. Troy clutches at the material of Ryan's shirt, _his_ shirt, pulling the smaller boy in closer until the strawberry scent of his hair hits Troy's nose, and their hips are touching.

It's intoxicating. Ryan's presence resonates on every nerve, getting Troy's blood racing through his veins.

Ryan gently breaks the kiss. His glow as he peers up at Troy from beneath the curtain of his eyelashes. "What do you say we go to my room, and…"

"Quadruple space?" Troy offers with a playful smile.

A grin breaks out on Ryan's face, like having a massively dorky boyfriend who will quote lines from films back at him is all that he's ever wanted. "Yes." He leans in and touches his nose to Troy's, his voice dropping to an enticing pitch that sends an anticipatory shiver up Troy's spine. "Quadruple space."

Two words have never sounded sexier to Troy's ears.

In seconds, they're running out of the kitchen, hand-in-hand, peals of giddy, excited laughter bubbling out of their throats, and, all Troy can think about, all that fills his head is, _I want this forever_ , on an endless loop.

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

Never in his life did Troy Bolton ever envision himself doing this. Yet, here he is, standing in the men's dressing room at East High, vibrating his lips, and emitting shrill, almost animalistic noises, as he pantomimes along with Ryan and Sharpay. These are the Evans twins trademark vocal warm-up exercises. He overheard Ryan and Sharpay doing them during the winter musical, last year, and recalled the jokes Chad had made, likening the sounds to a yowling cat in heat.

Troy didn't chip in with laughter, or his own quip, even though the noises coming from the siblings' mouths _were_ completely preposterous. But, to an outsider, wearing the same pair of socks consecutively, without washing them, would seem pretty ridiculous, as well.

That thought about theatrical, "larger than life", personalities enters his head, again, and while these larger than life personalities may have made the Evans twins targets for mockery, _they're_ the ones who opened their home up to Troy when he had nowhere else to go, and no one else to rely on. And, it will be these theatrical traits that get them the stardom they so desire and deserve.

Sharpay holds out a hand as a signal to stop, which Ryan and Troy do simultaneously. "I have to go to my dressing room to deal with hair and makeup," she says. "The lighting in here sucks." For a moment, her unshakable exterior cracks, revealing a glimpse of the girl Troy saw sobbing helplessly before her vanity on the night of the Lava Springs talent show. Her voice shakes just audibly. "You two better be ready by curtain call. No screwing around."

"We will be, Shar," Ryan assures her in that gentle, lilting voice of his.

Troy nods. It's a promise.

As Sharpay exits the room, Ryan turns to the vanity. He gives one of the flickering face lights a rough tap, to no avail, sighs, then pulls an electronic camping  lantern up from where it was sitting on the floor, underneath the precarious looking countertop.

He pushes several miscellaneous costume pieces and accessories aside to make room for the lantern beside the mirror, and switches it on.

Troy closes his eyes, blinking and squinting against the blinding glare.

"Sorry about that," Ryan murmurs, "but, Sharpay wasn't exaggerating. The lighting is terrible, in here."

"No, it's okay." Troy blinks a few more times to clear away the spots hovering in front of his eyes. "Maybe you could sue East High for some kind of discrimination?"

Ryan laughs. "My dad gave the idea consideration, but… I think this is a much better alternative."

Troy is about to ask for clarification, but the question dies in his throat as Ryan pulls aside a curtain to reveal a door set in the wall. He opens the door, grabs the lantern and the bag containing his costumes and makeup supplies, and beckons for Troy to follow him into the passageway just inside.

"Whoa!" Troy marvels as the curtain falls back over the door, concealing its existence from the untrained eye, once more. He turns to trail in Ryan's wake, carefully watching his step. "I had no idea this was here."

"I guess I have my own share of surprises," Ryan teases him gently, his eyes catching the glow of the lantern.

Five yards down the passageway, there's another door. Ryan opens it, and uses the lantern to locate the light switch. Once he's found it, the lights flick on  to a well-illuminated cream colored room that has several costume racks lining its floor, a sofa, a chair, and a vanity surrounded by dazzling face lights.

Troy stares, unable to stop himself from gaping, just a bit. It's such a contrast to the dilapidated room they just left, he's boggled by it all. "You weren't kidding about this being a better alternative. Holy _shit_."

"Seeing as funding for East High's theater department is coming out of my dad's _very_ deep pockets, we ultimately decided that an addition to the men's dressing room would bear more fruit than suing the school for what little money it has," Ryan explains. He turns the lantern off, sets it down, and looks to Troy, silently seeking approval. "I came up with the decorating scheme, myself. What do you think?"

Troy scans the room. He notes a few books and magazines stacked on the couch, and what he presumes is the script for the spring musical, on the vanity. There's a boombox with an Ipod dock, in one corner, and on the table beside the sofa is a large bag of Skittles and a bowl of peppermint candies. Beneath the vanity, there's a package of bottled water.

The place looks like more than a simple "addition".

"And here I was, thinking I was the only one with his own private hideaway, at this school." Troy phrases it as a statement, but they both know it's more than that.

Ryan falters, the corners of his mouth twitching, his muscles stiffening, a bit of the color leaving his face.

Immediately, Troy opens his mouth to apologize. "Ry, I-"

Ryan shakes his head. "Hey. We're gonna be out of here in a just a few more days. After that, nothing that any of them did to us… to you, to me, is going to matter, anymore. Right?"

Memories of Chad and Gabriella reprimanding him for focusing on his future, Chad lecturing him about his accidental audition for the school musical, the previous year, causing the team to come apart and the school to go crazy, images of Ryan being slammed into a locker, a knee savagely jamming into his stomach, Ryan's face contorting with pain, flash through Troy's mind in rapid succession. They're about to start compounding, along with every spoken and unspoken word or phrase that has ever hurt Troy, and every degrading name Troy has ever heard directed at Ryan in the hallways, until Troy takes a breath.

"Right," he agrees. It never truly hit him until this moment, but he's _ready_ to leave high school. He's ready to leave all of the limitations and inhibitions forced on him, and on Ryan, behind- ready to pursue every opportunity life offers him while he's still young and able to do so. And, maybe he always has been. Maybe he just didn't realize it because someone was holding him back.

Because _Gabriella_ was holding him back.

Troy takes the seat in front of the vanity. He peers over his shoulder to ask, "Could you give me a hand with my makeup, Ry? 'Cause I'm basically clueless when it comes to cosmetics, and I don't think me going onstage, looking like an escaped circus clown, would make Sharpay very happy."

Ryan laughs. "No, I can't imagine it would."

Troy smiles, glad to see that Ryan's nervousness from the night before has all but vanished.

As Ryan approaches, cosmetic supplies in hand, he says, gently caressing Troy's scalp, "You know, you'd probably be pretty skilled with makeup application if you gave it a try."

"Maybe next show." This feels like a promise, and Ryan seems to interpret it as one. His eyes shine as a huge, heart-melting smile makes its way across his face, and Troy remembers the rush of joy that filled him at the delighted "yes" the blond emitted when Troy announced that he was on board to do the spring musical. Having someone be that excited just to be around you, having someone believe in you _that much_ , it's something that Troy isn't used to. At least, not in this sense. The people who were excited to be around him, or believed in him, before, only did so because he was their basketball champion.

As always, however, Ryan is _different_. A special, wonderful kind of different.

And, it's almost intoxicating.

Ryan takes the mascara applicator and combs it up the stretch of Troy's eyelashes, and Troy breathes in. Lyrics and dance steps flit through his mind at lightning speed. He can't screw this up. He _won't_. His acceptance letter from Berkeley flashes into his brain, as well. Troy tenses briefly, muscles tightening, and before Ryan's brows can knit with concern, he breathes out.

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

Behind the curtains, Troy can hear the last trickle of audience members making their way to their seats. He tries to guess, based on the volume, whether or not the house is filled to capacity. "Sounds pretty packed out there."

"Yeah," Ryan agrees, shuffling his feet and fiddling with the ends of his red necktie.

Silently, Troy crosses over and gives Ryan a peck on the cheek. The tie slips from Ryan's grasp and his feet still.

"You'll be amazing," Troy promises. He smooths out Ryan's tie and tilts the brim of his gray and white trilby.

"Thank you," a beaming Ryan replies in a watery, quavering voice. He lets out a tiny laugh, dabbing at his eyes with the knuckle of his index finger. "Look at me. I'm a mess."

Troy shakes his head. "You? Never. _I'm_ the one who was a mess, and look at me, now."

Ryan stares into Troy's eyes. "Troy," he says slowly, meaningfully, "I love you. And I am _so_ proud of you. I want you to know that."

Gabriella was never proud of him.

Troy swallows the lump rising in his throat. Tears sting his eyes. "I do," he says softly, his own voice watery.

"Okay," Ryan murmurs. He leans in and presses a kiss to Troy's jaw, a few centimeters away from the distinct beauty mark that Troy has had as long as he can remember. Ryan's eyes are misty as he holds Troy's gaze for a second longer, then slips into his position atop the shiny black grand piano. This allows Troy full view of Ryan's backside- the tight black pants clinging to every curve, and the word "LUXURY", printed across his shoulder blades. 

"Break a leg out there!" Troy calls to him.

"You, too!" Ryan calls back, flashing Troy a last encouraging grin and a thumbs up as the piano moves into place and out of Troy's line of vision.

His message is clear; _"You've got this."_

Troy hopes that Ryan is right, for Ryan's sake.

There's movement from out in the house as the few stragglers make their way to their seats, and then, quiet. Troy imagines that Kelsi is cueing the band and orchestra members. He feels his fellow cast mates get into their positions behind him.

Notes sound out as Kelsi's fingers flit across the piano keys. Then…

 

_It's our last chance_

_To share the stage_ , Kelsi sings softly. Her voice is a bit sharp, but Troy reasons that the notes _are_ somewhat out of her range.

_Before we go_

_Our separate ways_

 

Ryan's voice joins in. Hushed, a melodic almost whisper, it remains clear and distinct from Kelsi's voice.

 

_High school wasn't meant to last_

_Forever_

 

_It's our last chance_

_For us to shine_

_To bring you music_

_One more time_

 

_So come on, come on, come on_

 

_Come on, come on, come on,_ a small group of back-up singers echoes.

 

_Come on, come on, come on,_ Ryan and Kelsi draw the note out, and, in his mind's eye, Troy can see Ryan using his finger to beckon the rest of the cast onto the stage.

 

There's a beat, the stage lights come on, and Troy grins at Ryan as he enters from stage left, singing along with his cast mates;

 

_It's our last chance_

_To share the stage_

_Before we go_

_Our separate ways_

 

_We should spend these_

_Final days together_

 

_We'll be together,_ Chad and Taylor sing, Chad giving Taylor a twirl in their area of the stage.

 

_It's our last chance_

_For us to shine_

_And make some music_

_One more time_

 

_So come on, come on, come on_

_Come on, come on, come on_

_Come on, come on, come on!_

 

_Let's dance!_ Troy feels his foot nearly collide with Sharpay's. He corrects himself, glad that he didn't trip her up, like he once did in rehearsals. If she shoots him a dirty look, it escapes his notice.

 

_Let's dance!_

 

_'Cause this is our last chance_

_It's our last chance_

 

Beat, and pose.

Exhilaration coursing through him, as soon as the number ends, Troy rushes backstage and catches Ryan as the blond rejoins him. "How did I do?" He asks. "Did I mess up that ball change?"

"No one changes balls quite as efficiently as you," Ryan replies, a playful smirk on his face.

Troy responds with an unabashed grin. No one is going to spoil Ryan's chance at the Juilliard scholarship, not on his watch. And, honestly, it feels _good_ to be told that he's a talented performer.

He almost stumbles as Ryan grabs him by the hand and leads him excitedly down to the dressing rooms. Ryan notices this and pauses to help Troy regain his footing before they continue on their way.

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

To spare the cast more strife, Troy was omitted from the basketball team's number, leaving him with only the show's big romantic duet to focus on. Before that scene, the senior class discusses their hopes and dreams for the future, and this segues into Ryan's solo performance.

Troy got to watch Ryan and his back-up dancers in rehearsals, and he feels himself tingling with excitement at the prospect of seeing the routine fully realized.

The music swells as Ryan enters from upstage with a flourish. He does a one-hundred eighty degree turn, placing his beige and pink trilby on his head, before gracefully descending the makeshift platform. Pink lights flick on in time with his movements, emphasizing the hot pink of his curve-hugging pants, and glinting off of the black leather of his jacket. His voice sails out, liquid, pure, every note pitch perfect and filled with desire that resonates in Troy's soul.

Ryan's back-up dancers, clad in matching black dresses, knee-high hot pink boots, pink wigs, and cat ear headbands, move in synchronization with him, and they're as much a well-oiled machine as every sports team Troy has ever watched. With every step, every turn, every pivot of Ryan's hips, it's clear that he was born for this, that this is his niche, his _thing_.

_And, maybe_ , Troy thinks to himself as he watches Ryan be jostled and pulled back and forth by the girls, my _niche is standing on the sidelines, watching Ryan shine._

As Ryan and the girls strike their finishing pose, the crowd erupts in applause. Troy spots Mr. and Mrs. Evans, fresh off the plane from India, get on their feet to cheer for their son, Mrs. Evans beaming as she claps heartily, and Mr. Evans wolf-whistling.

 Ms. Darbus blows Ryan a kiss from her seat in the audience.

Troy sees the Juilliard scouts, seated in their specially reserved chairs, scribbling away on their clipboards, brows raised.

He can feel the broad smile on his own face, and he can't refrain from letting out a cheer and giving a fist pump as Ryan rolls downstage for an encore. The crowd eating it up is the best response he could have asked for.

Ryan is going to get that scholarship. He feels it in his bones.

Before Troy can blink, Ryan is crushed against him, arms looped around Troy's back. His chest expands and contracts rapidly with every breath, and Troy is swept up in the infectious excitement rolling off of him.

"They loved you," Troy says, breathing in the mingled scent of leather, sweat, and Ryan's sweet smelling cologne.

"They really did, didn't they?" Ryan is incredulous as he turns toward the house, where boisterous cheers and applause are still audible. Troy isn't certain, but he has a feeling that Ryan is angling to see the reactions of the Juilliard scouts.

Once Ryan has slipped out of his leather jacket and mopped the sweat off of his neck, he heads to his sister, who is already in costume and wrapped up in a glittery robe made of pink silk and lined with fluffy faux fur, listing off orders to a member of the stage crew.

When Sharpay says his name, inquiring about his whereabouts, Troy flinches. He just barely resists the instinctive urge to seek out a prop to hide behind. Yes, he and Sharpay are on better terms, now… for the most part. But, rehearsing their kissing scene is the last thing he wants to do.

Luckily, she resigns, "He's around here somewhere."

Ryan reaches out, touching his sister's shoulder. It's clear to Troy that he's looking for praise, an acknowledgement that he did a good job.

Sharpay turns to meet her brother's eyes before dropping her gaze below his belt. "Ohh!" She exclaims. "Cute pants!" She makes a cooing sound and giggles, beaming at Ryan, then takes a cue from the stage hand and begins making her way toward the stage, trilling out more vocal warm-ups.

Ryan's shoulders slump. His face falls and he unleashes a heavy sigh.

Troy's heart twists. But, as much as he wants to run to Ryan's side and assure him that Sharpay was just preoccupied with other things, that _anyone_ could see that he'd done an amazing job out there, he refrains.

That's not enough. Ryan deserves bigger. _More_.

Glancing at his wrist, Troy reasons that he has enough time before his and Sharpay's duet. He can make it back. As discreetly as possible, he slips out of the backstage area, and then out of the school building altogether.

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

Retrieving the guitar is the easy part. Troy is in and out of the Bolton house with the instrument in tow in less than thirty seconds. What comes next _shouldn't_ be the hard part, but, as he knows from experience, will be.

After carefully placing the guitar in the passenger seat of his truck, Troy closes the driver's side door, sticks the key into the ignition and holds his breath. _Come on_ , he pleads.

He turns the key. That all too familiar spluttering sound greets his ears and his stomach drops. "Come _on_!" He pleads again. More hopeless spluttering sounds from the engine. He delivers a punch to the dashboard, waves of piercing disappointment washing over him. _Why_? Why does this keep happening to him? Why is he such a failure? Why can't he ever do one simple thing _right_?

The recollection of what happened the night he tried to drive out to Gabriella returns to him with startling clarity. His truck broke down in Nevada, and so did he. He gave up. He resigned himself to his failure.

But, _this time_ …

Troy clenches his fist and his jaw in determination. Resolve floods him, replacing the bone-penetrating disappointment. Ryan is counting on him. He _won't_ let him down.

He fires off a quick text to Jimmie, warning him to be prepared to go on, _just in case_ , grabs the guitar off of the passenger seat and jumps out of the vehicle. Once the doors to the pickup are closed, he makes his way down the driveway, his brisk jog gradually picking up speed. As he turns off of the street the Bolton house is on, he breaks into a sprint, his grip on the neck of the guitar tightening as his feet smack against the pavement. Arms pumping, his breath falls in time with the heartbeat pounding in his chest.

_Ryan. Have to do this for Ryan. Can't let Ryan down. Can't ruin this for everyone._

Houses fly past. The sidewalk is reduced to an orange-tinted blur beneath his feet. Inhale. Exhale. Each intersection he encounters is, thankfully, free of traffic, allowing him to continue forward without pause. Troy recalls his mornings and evenings spent on the track field at East High; the hours he devoted to running until his lungs burned. Back then, he was running in a circle with no particular destination. Aimless, directionless.

Now, he is running toward something.

 Something safe, something inviting, something… _real_.

By the time the school is in his line of sight, his legs have taken on the consistency of jelly, but he doesn't break his stride. He keeps going, across the street, up the walkway at the front of the building, ascending the steps, through the doors, feet pounding against the polished white floor. His shuddering breaths seem to echo thunderously in the empty hallways.

_Almost… there. Just a little…_

He bursts through the double doors backstage, places his guitar out of harm's way, and promptly buckles over. Hands on his knees, he gasps for air, practically choking on his own spit.

The click of frantic heels against the floor meets his ears. He peers up to see Sharpay dressed in her "Gabriella" costume, rushing backstage. Her eyes blaze beneath the glittery green eyeshadow on her eyelids. "Oh, _perfect_ ," she grits out upon locating Troy. "Go for it, save the day, _whoopee_!"

Behind her stands Ryan, his eyes wide as saucers.

Sharpay pushes past Troy, nearly knocking him off balance, and heads toward the dressing rooms in a huff. Troy wants to ask what the hell went wrong, what he could have _possibly_ done to work Sharpay up to this extent, but he doesn't quite have enough air in his lungs to manage speech.

"Are you okay?" Ryan asks.

Troy nods. "Yeah." He pauses to breathe in, coughing a bit. "I'm all right."

Ryan comes to Troy's side and lays a comforting hand on the small of his back. "I was so worried. I looked everywhere for you. Sharpay started panicking onstage when you didn't come out on cue."

"She…?" Troy recalls the anger flashing in Sharpay's eyes as she stalked down to the dressing rooms. "Oh, _shit_." Before the apology rolls off his tongue, Ryan intercepts him.

"Come here. You need to see this." Guiding a curious Troy upright, he takes his hand and leads him toward the stage. Together, they peer out to see Jimmie center stage, wearing a long buccaneer's coat and a sparkling pink trilby with a scarf tied around his head and a blue feather boa draped around his neck.

The sophomore basks in a boisterous applause, spinning about to showcase his… _interesting_ choice of attire. "Thank you!" He exclaims. "No, _you guys_ are awesome!"

"Oh man," Troy murmurs, shaking his head. No wonder Sharpay was so upset.

Ryan signals to Kelsi, using the hand he has linked with Troy's to gesture excitedly toward the former athlete. "He's here!" 

Troy can't help laughing softly to himself as his arm is jerked about by the intensity of Ryan's excitement.

Kelsi leaps up from her seat behind the piano, her eyes glowing. A wide smile breaks out on her face. It's quickly erased, however, as her professionalism takes over. She gestures frantically, mouthing, "Places! Find Sharpay!" As Kelsi readies herself to conduct the band and orchestra, Ryan and Troy exit through the doors backstage.

"I'll go and talk to my sister," Ryan says, one foot in the doorway, fully prepared to rush off and try to talk some sense into Sharpay. When Troy doesn't move, can't will himself to, he adds, gesturing for him to go on ahead, "Go. You're on."

Troy finally realizes why he's lingering. "Sing with me."

Ryan freezes, like he's contemplating whether or not he's misheard him.

"Ryan, come on," Troy pleads. "You know these songs forward and back. Who could sing them better than you? We…" He steps forward, suddenly bashful. How should he phrase this? He's already ruined Sharpay's shot at the Juilliard scholarship. _But_ … "We all know Sharpay isn't Gabriella. Do you know what else she isn't?" He reaches out and grabs Ryan's hand, interlacing their fingers. The touch causes Ryan to lift his head so his eyes meet Troy's. Troy peers into those eyes, happily losing himself in the shades of blue- cornflower, baby- that he wants to wake up to for the rest of his life. "She isn't the one I should be singing that song with."

Ryan's eyes shimmer. He gapes with a mixture of incredulity, delight, and _so much love_.  "If…" He begins, his voice watery. He clears his throat, and a smile tugs at his lips. "I thought you'd never ask."

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

Troy enters through the double doors, right on cue, to applause and a chorus of cheers. The smile on his face is genuine. He nods to a few audience members and it's almost better than the crowd in the stands cheering for him during a basketball game.

 

_You know how life can be_ , he sings

_It changes overnight_

 

_It's sunny, then rainin'_ , Ryan chimes in.

 

Troy feels his heart leap like it's never going to come back down.

_But, it's all right_ , he harmonizes with the blond.

 

_A friend like you-_ Ryan enters through the doors of the makeshift balcony and twirls across the set, finishing with a dramatic point at Troy.

 

_Always makes it easy_

 

_I know that you get me_

 

_Every time_

 

Troy drops onto the piano bench next to Kelsi. With a smile at the girl, he bangs on a few keys, then mimes playing along to the musical score.

 

_Through every up_

_Through every down_

_You-_ he points dramatically at Ryan, still miming playing the piano with his free hand _\- know I'll always_

_Be around_

 

_Through anything,_

_You can count on me!_

 

As if suddenly realizing that he can't actually play the instrument, Troy raises his hands from the keys with a look of astonishment, flashing a smile in Ryan's direction.

Ryan returns the smile wholeheartedly.

To their shared surprise, this crowd does not voice its disapproval.

Troy gives Kelsi a light nudge and rises from the piano.

 

_All_ , he sings, tossing his hair out of his eyes, his voice blending seamlessly with Ryan's in a beautiful harmony. The kind of harmony that he wants to hear for the rest of his life.

 

_I wanna do_

_Is be with you_

_Be with you_

 

Troy makes his way to the side of the stage and begins climbing the tree prop. There's no ghost of the sensations of him and Gabriella smearing wet paint on one another, that first day in rehearsals, lingering in his mind. There's simply Ryan. Ryan, who stood by patiently through everything, observing, assisting, and waiting for him, just like he is now.

 

_There's nothing we can't do_

_Just wanna be with you_

 

Ryan beckons Troy, a coy smile on his face as his hand slides tantalizingly along the rail of the balcony.

 

Troy leaps onto the platform.

 

_Only you_

 

_No matter where life takes us,_ Troy hops toward center.

_Nothing can break us,_ Ryan hops toward center.

_Apart_

 

_You know it's true,_ Troy takes his final hop.

 

_I just wanna be with you_

 

Turning simultaneously, drawing the note for "you", out, Troy and Ryan stare into each other's eyes, beaming, their faces mere inches apart. There are a few shocked and possibly outraged murmurs from the audience, but the boys pay them no mind. All that matters is that _finally_ , Troy is singing this song with the right person. Troy resists the urge to snatch that right person up, and focuses, instead, on doing the choreography and making that person proud.

Together, Troy and Ryan maneuver upstage and go through the routine that comes so naturally to Troy with Ryan as his partner. He doesn't miss a single beat, pulling Ryan into him and savoring every second.

 

_The sun will always shine_

_That's how you make me feel_

 

_We're gonna be all right_ , Ryan promises as Troy spins him out. They move to opposite sides of the stage, but not before Ryan throws Troy a look to tell him he means it.

 

Troy is caught off-guard for an instant, but sings his response:

_'Cause what we have is real_

 

Ryan takes a flying leap into his arms, and Troy spins him about, clinging to him. Whatever happens tonight, they'll make it work.

 

They _have_ to.

 

_And, we will always be together_

 

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

The curtains come open to reveal Tiara standing on top of a staircase against a star backdrop lined with scintillating lights.

 

_Who's that girl?_ "Sharpay"s male backup singers and dancers prompt as Tiara, clad in a dress disturbingly similar to the one Troy remembers Sharpay showing off, a week prior, strikes Sharpay-esque poses.

 

_She's so fine_

_Who's that girl?_

_I don't recognize_

 

Ryan peers out from backstage, seeking his parents' faces. "Mom and dad look lost," he whispers to Troy.

"I'd be, too, if someone else was playing my kid," Troy replies.

 

_Who's that girl?_

_She looks so good, yeah_

 

_Guess we never really noticed_

_But, we probably should_

 

_Big fun!_ Tiara exclaims. Her voice is high and distinctly nasally. Troy notes Ryan wincing as the sophomore's singing peals out through the auditorium.

 

_On the night of nights_

_The night of nights_

_Tonight_

 

_Let's dance!_

_On the night of nights_

_You know we're_

_Gonna do it right_

 

_It's gonna be our night_

_To remember_

 

A second, more mature female voice joins Tiara's. In unison, Tiara, and everyone else, Troy assumes, looks up to see Sharpay dressed in her blue costume for this number, descending from an umbrella prop a la Mary Poppins.

Rather reluctantly, Troy acknowledges that is a damn cool way to make an entrance.

" _Surprise_!" Sharpay shoots her understudy a look that Troy likens to laser beams firing from her eyes.

Tiara's mildly bewildered expression doesn't escape Troy's notice, or Ryan's, either, for that matter.

Once Sharpay steps onto the stage, Troy sees a crowd of people rushing from the dressing rooms and wherever else to gather backstage and watch the ensuing… _cat fight_ feels like the only suitable term. Sharpay and Tiara commence in a battle for the spotlight; showboating, tussling, and even shoving Dylan Hughes, one of the backup dancers, into his fellow dancers as he tries to break the scuffle up.

Troy feels a minor trill of excitement that intensifies as a look of annoyance crosses Ryan's face. Heaving a sigh, Ryan pulls out the controls for the stage. He's clearly had enough with his sister's diva antics, and Troy can hardly blame him.

As Tiara and Sharpay reach the final repetitious lines of the song, Ryan pushes the button to open the trapdoor in the center of the stage, and lower the girls out of sight.

Applause breaks out among the peanut gallery. But, the sound that Troy zeroes in on is the giddy, victorious laughter that Ryan emits. _Finally_ , after _years_ of residing in his sister's shadow, being her bag boy, her henchman, her sidekick, having his feelings overlooked and forgotten, being called Sharpay's "poodle", and even getting ignored by his own parents in favor of appeasing his sister's whims, _he_ 's the one who gets to have the last laugh.

Troy chuckles softly right along with him, and pulls the smaller boy in close to him. "They should thank you," he murmurs against Ryan's earlobe. "While everyone loves a good cat fight, that ending was better than what they were going for. Which, probably would've resulted in someone walking away with a black eye and a bloody nose."

"Sharpay could kick Tiara's ass. No contest," Ryan declares. "But…" A hint of dismay and unease creeps into his voice. The giddiness of victory has left him completely. "I doubt the Juilliard scouts would have approved of that. "

The rest of his sentence, "or anything Sharpay did, tonight", goes unsaid, but Troy picks up on it, all the same.

Troy feels a twinge of pity for the female Evans twin. Sharpay has been a relatively consistent pain in his ass since the infamous winter musical auditions, but going to Juilliard was her _dream_ , just as much as it was Ryan's and Kelsi's. Knowing that this is only a fraction of the pity and disappointment Ryan must feel, he holds the smaller boy close for a moment longer, hoping to console him.

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

Without prompting, Ryan assures Troy that Sharpay's onstage freakout while she was more or less forced to perform with Jimmie _wasn't_ Troy's fault. "She broke the golden rule of performing- " He turns away from the dressing room mirror where he is adjusting his graduation cap, and quotes dramatically, "'Whatever happens, the show must go on'. She broke character. You're no more to blame for that than anyone else."

"You promise?" Troy swallows. His black necktie constricts his throat. He feels tension rising in his chest, and hopes that he isn't going to get sick during the final act of the show. He wants Ryan to receive that scholarship. _More than anything_. At the same time, however, he doesn't know how to be alone. He doesn't want to be left behind, again.

Ryan crosses over to loosen the tie, just a bit, and help pull the wrinkles out of Troy's red graduation gown.

Troy can't imagine functioning without him for any period of time.

"I promise." Ryan offers Troy his hand, and, together, they make their way back onstage.

Before they slip into their places, Troy pulls back. He takes a long look at Ryan's face, commits the arc of Ryan's neatly groomed brows, the bow of his lips, the contours of his nose, the fullness of his cheeks, the color of his eyes to memory. _Please_ , he pleads silently, _I don't want to lose him. Not after I finally found him._

The music starts up.

"Are you okay?" Ryan asks. He searches Troy's eyes, his brows knitting.

Troy forces himself to nod. "Yeah." He reaches out and grabs onto Ryan's hand, once more.

"Hey. Everything will be okay, all right?" Ryan promises softly.

Troy tries to believe him.

As they slip into their places, the atmosphere grows suddenly solemn.  Spikes of anticipation lace the air, a sharp contrast to the excitement that crackled through the backstage area as Sharpay Evans brawled with her sophomore understudy.

Troy can't help but cast a brief glance in Ryan's direction as the curtain opens.

Ryan meets the look, giving Troy a soft smile.

_Everything will be okay_ , Troy thinks, echoing the blond's earlier sentiment. _Everything will be okay. It… It_ has _to be._

"Ladies and gentleman, our seniors!" Ms. Darbus declares. She gestures toward the group and Troy and the others take their cue to step forward.

Troy feels his pulse throbbing in his temples, and hopes for the second time, that evening, that he isn't about to get sick.

"Kelsi Nielsen," the drama teacher goes on without any prelude, her pride and smile audible, "the Juilliard school scholarship recipient!"

For a moment, Kelsi is frozen with shock, as Troy imagines Ryan and Sharpay are. Stomach churning, pulse thundering, he seeks out the siblings, expecting to see dismay darkening their features.

Ryan swallows. He's staring straight ahead. Neither his posture, nor his face betray feelings of failure and sadness.

Sharpay turns to stare at Kelsi, her eyes wide with disbelief.

Once the news sinks in, members of the audience jumping to their feet to give Kelsi a standing ovation, Kelsi's whole body shakes with excitement. She emits a tiny, delighted squeal.

Martha moves to take her into a congratulatory hug.

Swallowing his nausea and sympathy for Ryan, Troy smiles and applauds the petite composer. No. It's not _Ryan_ on the receiving end of this momentous opportunity, but… Kelsi is the second best person the scholarship could have gone to. She deserves to go to Juilliard, just as much as Ryan does. Troy thinks of how well Kelsi will fit in among other kids who share her passion for music and song-writing, how she won't have any high school divas like Sharpay Evans to push her around and intimidate her into compliance, and his heart swells, his racing pulse easing.

He just- He hopes… Ryan _will_ find fame, with or without Juilliard. He can still go to New York. He can audition for a play. He…

Troy swallows hard.

Ms. Darbus continues down the line, announcing that Jason will be graduating alongside his classmates, a revelation that causes Jason to leap joyously into Zeke's arms.

Taylor will be going to Yale and majoring in Honors Political Science.

Troy tries to be happy for them. He does, but all he feels is a sort of internal static. Emotional white noise.

"And," the drama teacher goes on, "I am pleased to announce that due to the excellence displayed here, this evening, the Juilliard school has made an extraordinary decision."

Juilliard.

"Another senior is being offered a Juilliard scholarship."

Troy's heart misses a beat. He turns to look at Ryan, pleading all the while, _Not me._ Please _don't pick me. Let it be Ryan, not me-_

"Congratulations, Mr. Ryan Evans, Choreography!"

Troy's heart just about bursts, and he almost chokes in his attempt to hold back an exclamation of joy. He has to war with his limbs to stay in his position on the stage and not rush to Ryan to sweep him off of his feet and into his arms. All he can do is beam as a surprised Ryan is taken into a hug by Sharpay- a hug that says very plainly, "No hard feelings- and as Mr. and Mrs. Evans clap for their son.

Ryan was right. Everything is going to be just fine.

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

After everyone-  including Sharpay, who enlisted Mr. Evans in carrying out all of the love notes and roses waiting for Sharpay in her dressing room- has cleared out, Troy and Ryan linger in the auditorium.

"This place feels completely different at night," Ryan says, taking in the darkened auditorium and rows of empty seats.

"It makes it easier to think, when there's not so many people around," Troy comments.

Ryan nods, a sad sort of smile tugging at his lips, and Troy can tell that Ryan is thinking about Troy's secret hideaway on the roof of the school.

Troy takes Ryan by the hand and leads him onto the stage. "There's something I've wanted to tell you for a while, and it took me some time to figure out just how to say it."

"Oh?"  Ryan's voice is a bit unsteady, likely from the emotional roller coaster this evening has been.

Troy hopes his voice doesn't crack. Too much. "Ryan, being with you has helped me realize the kind of person I want to be. It's helped me see that I _am_ a lot more than East High's 'Basketball Guy', that there's more to me than sports and popularity, and… I wanted to thank you. And I figured this was the best way to do that." He steps backstage and retrieves his guitar.

Surprise and curiosity flit over Ryan's features.

Holding the instrument at waist level and slipping its strap over his shoulder, Troy begins strumming the chords that he worked arduously to commit to memory.

 

_On a Monday,_ he sings _, I am waiting_

_Tuesday, I am fading_

_And by Wednesday,_

_I can't sleep_

 

_Then the phone rings,_

_I hear you_

_And the darkness, is a clear view_

_'Cause you've come to rescue me_

 

_Fall_

_With you I fall so fast_

_I can hardly catch my breath_

_I hope it lasts_

 

_Oh, it seems like I can finally rest_

_My head on somethin' real_

_I like the way that feels_

 

_Oh, it's as if you know me_

_Better than I ever knew myself_

_I love how you can tell_

 

_All the pieces, pieces, pieces of me_

_All the pieces, pieces, pieces of me_

 

_I am moody, messy_

_I get restless and senseless_

_And you never_

_Seem to care_

 

_When I'm angry,_

_You listen,_

_Make me happy, it's your mission_

_And you won't stop till I'm there_

 

_Fall,_

_Sometimes I fall so fast_

_When I hit that bottom, crash,_

_You're all I have_

 

_Oh, it seems like I can finally rest_

_My head on somethin' real_

_I like the way that feels_

 

_Oh, it's as if you know me_

_Better than I ever knew myself_

_I love how you can tell_

 

_All the pieces, pieces, pieces of me_

 

_How do you know_

_Everything I'm about to say?_

_Am I that obvious?_

 

_And if it's written on my face,_

_I hope it never goes away_

 

_Yeah_

 

He glances up from the guitar strings to see Ryan's eyes misting. The blond boy sniffles, a tiny, watery laugh breaking through, and Troy smiles softly.

 

_On a Monday, I am waiting_

_And by Tuesday, I am fading_

_Into your arms_

 

He makes certain to look into Ryan's eyes.

 

_So I can breathe!_

 

_Oh, it seems like I can finally rest_

_My head on somethin' real_

_I like the way that feels_

 

_Oh, it's as if you know me_

_Better than I ever knew myself_

_I love how you can tell_

 

_Oh, I love how you can tell_

 

_Oh, I love how you can tell_

 

_All the pieces, pieces, pieces of me_

_All the pieces, pieces, pieces of me_

 

 

Tears stream down Ryan's face as the final chords fall silent. His jaw quavers with the intensity of his smile. Once Troy has set the guitar down, Ryan wastes no time taking the brunette into a tight hug and whispering against his ear, "I love you, Troy. I love you so much."

"I love you, too, Ry," Troy returns. "And, hey. Look, I know that none of the schools in New York have responded, but I can try sending in my applications again. Maybe they just lost them, or…"

"It's okay," Ryan assures him, rubbing Troy's back soothingly. "If the East Coast can't realize what kind of amazing brain and talent they're missing out on by not accepting your applications, then screw them." He's silent for a minute. For a minute, all Troy can hear is his own racing heart, and he's beginning to feel desperate, _lost_ , again. "And, you know… California feels a bit more my pace than New York City."

Troy pulls away. His heart feels like someone just sucker-punched it. "What?" He isn't certain that what he just heard was correct. He doesn't want to _believe_ that he just heard those words come out of Ryan's mouth. But, there is nothing in Ryan's expression or body language to indicate that he means to retract that statement. "Ryan, you _can't_ turn down Juilliard for me." His chest aches fiercely even as the words leave his mouth, but he's not going to drag Ryan down. He _won't_ be a deadweight that stands in Ryan's way. He'll _never_ be a roadblock in the path to Ryan's goals again. He has to get through to him, has to stop him from making a huge mistake. "That's a once in a lifetime opportunity. That's your _dream_."

"People's dreams can change, Troy," Ryan says, as patient and lenient as ever. "Of course I'm happy that I got into Juilliard, that the scouts awarded a special extra scholarship to me, something that has probably never happened before at any other high school. But, doesn't that show that I could go anywhere and find fame? That I have something special?" He falters briefly, his eyes betraying his momentary lapse in self-confidence. "Isn't that what you said?"

"Yeah, of course." Ryan is _absolutely_ good enough to find fame anywhere he goes. "But…" Troy's mind whirls, heart pounding with his confusion and desperation. "You _can't_. You can't give this up over _me_."

"You have _got_ to stop treating yourself like you're some sort of burden that people have to deal with." Ryan's voice trembles the slightest bit. He moves in and places a soft hand on Troy's cheek, cradling it, as he looks steadfastly into the former athlete's eyes. "You're _not_ , Troy. Haven't you ever thought that people might need you? That _I_ need you?"

The words take Troy aback. Ryan… _needs_ him?

"Troy, I _want_ to be with you. I've liked you since freshman year, and loved you from the very first moment I heard you sing." A smile tugs the corners of his lips upward at the memory. It's quickly replaced, however, by narrowed eyes and an enraged sneer as his voice hardens. "Contrary to what the fucked up mental battery that your friends and your ex-girlfriend subjected you to told you over and over," here, his voice and expression soften, "you never have been, and never _will be_ a burden, a problem, or deadweight. Especially not to me."

Tears glisten on the surface of Ryan's sky-colored eyes and Troy feels his throat tighten.

"Even if I did decide to go to Juilliard," Ryan goes on, "I'd still love for you to come with me. But, not because you feel obligated to do so, or because you think I wouldn't wait for you. That I'd let the distance tear us apart. I would never let that happen. I'd find a way to make us work. You're something too amazing, too wonderful to let go of that easily. And, that's why I want to come with you." 

"But, I don't… I don't understand." Troy just gets out over the lump in his throat, his voice small. "Why would you want to come with me?"

"Because I _love_ you. I love to sing with you, to dance with you. I love watching you sing, and dance, and be you, while cheering you on from the sidelines. Troy, I love to make you laugh and smile, and see that light in your eyes. I love rolling over and knowing that you're right there, warm and safe and ready for me to snuggle into. I love that you follow your heart and inspire others to do the same. I love how you eat the food that I can't finish, and how everyone knows, whether they admit it, or not, that they can count on you to always do the right thing. Because you're someone that people can trust, that they can depend on." Ryan's hand moves from Troy's cheek to trace down his arm, all the way to the end of his wrist, where he grabs onto the brunette's hands with both of his hands, squeezing them softly, _pleading_. "That's why I want to come with you. Because you _deserve_ Berkeley, Troy. You deserve it _so much_. And, I need my 'Number One Fan' beside me. And, you need yours."

"Even if I'm the worst person in the world to share a bed with?" Troy teases gently because it's all that he can come up with, tears beginning to spill down his cheeks.

"You're not even close." Ryan manages a very soft laugh before his voice breaks. "You're actually my favorite person in the whole wide world to share a bed with."

Some sort of barrier within Troy comes crashing down. _Ryan is_ right _,_ he realizes, and, at last, he relents. He gives into the desire that his entire body seems to ache with.

He starts living for himself.

"Fuck, I want you to come with me, too. I want to live with you in a condo by the beach, or in a shitty apartment, or wherever. I want to come home from the amazing school that I got into and tell you all about my day, and… I _love_ you, Ryan." Swallowing a relieved sob, he adds with a hint of a laugh, "And, I've gotten way too fond of falling asleep with you in my arms, and waking up to find you beside me, for anything else to possibly work."

Wiping the tears off of Troy's cheeks and brushing his own tears away, a beaming Ryan laughs softly, happily, and captures Troy's lips in a deep kiss. Troy kisses him back without reservation, pouring everything he has into the lip-lock. When he at last breaks off after a few minutes, or maybe it's a few days, he grins sunnily and scoops Ryan up bridal style. Ryan loops one arm around Troy's neck to help support his own weight, but he otherwise leaves whether he'll come crashing to the ground entirely up to Troy, who has no intention of ever letting him fall.

Troy twirls Ryan around, just like he wanted to when he first found out about his admission to Berkeley, and when he heard Ms. Darbus proclaiming that Ryan was the recipient of the second, special Juilliard scholarship. Their euphoric laughter echoes off of the walls and fills the auditorium for the final time.

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

During the celebratory dinner in the dining room at Lava Springs, Sharpay and Ryan take off for a secluded corner of the room to discuss their impending separation. Sharpay will be attending U of A, and acting as a part time assistant for Ms. Darbus. Come fall, Ryan will be taking off for California at Troy's side.

It's probably the first time in their lives that the Evans twins will have such a great distance between them. That they'll have to call one another on the phone, or rely on video chatting, because they'll no longer be within shouting distance of each other.

Troy can feel his heart twisting as he watches the siblings talk. He hears Sharpay's voice steadily increasing in volume although her words remain unintelligible. He can make out Ryan's body trembling, even from his seat at the table across the room, and considers intervening, his legs ready to push his chair out from the table.

The sound of Sharpay sniffling halts him in his tracks.

As Troy looks on, Sharpay allows Ryan to draw her into an embrace. Ryan murmuring to his sister in soothing, dulcet tones is the last part of their conversation that Troy is able to pick up on before a hand brushes against his shoulder. He turns to his right to find his mom smiling softly at him.

"They'll be all right," she says.

"Yeah," Troy murmurs. He manages to smile at his mother, then pokes at his plate of chicken parmigiana.

His mind wanders back to his conversation with Chad, when he was still seeking shelter at the Evans house- to his promise to keep in touch, and come back and visit over the holidays. If he and Chad can maintain a friendship over a distance, he's _positive_ that Ryan and Sharpay can.

And, Ryan and Sharpay seem to agree. They're holding hands, now, smiling at one another, and Troy can faintly pick up the names of several celebrities that Sharpay is rattling off, probably in the hopes of working with them, someday.

Jack Bolton and Vance Evans are immersed in a conversation about real estate in California.

Derby Evans suggests several shops that Troy and his parents can go to, to pick up miscellaneous items for Troy and Ryan's future apartment.

It all feels… _right_.

Troy smiles to himself and delivers a forkful of chicken to his mouth.

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

At the dress rehearsal for their graduation, Taylor personally requested that Troy make a speech at the ceremony, the following day. Troy was more than a bit confused by this. He wasn't the class president, or the valedictorian, but Taylor insisted that, because of his status, he was the best possible man for the job.

Troy was reluctant to agree for a moment or two, but, as he took in the expression on Ryan's face, gentle, encouraging, the unspoken "only if you want to" written there, he found he couldn't say no.

He spent the rest of that night composing his speech, painstakingly racking his brain for inspirational quotes, and the right wording that would leave his fellow and soon to be former classmates with something to hold onto.

He rides to graduation with Ryan and Sharpay.

Sharpay drives more recklessly than she did when she drove them to Chipotle, her long hair blowing in the breeze, radio blasting.

Ryan and Troy both have to reach up to secure their graduation caps.

"I can't believe we're graduating from the football field," Sharpay shouts over the wind and the pop song pouring out of her convertible's speakers.

Troy looks to Ryan, uncertain if the female Evans twin is actually seeking a response.

"I figured you wouldn't have a problem with that. Weren't you getting pretty cozy with one of the football players?" Ryan asks slyly.

Troy has to stifle a laugh. He can see Sharpay's face turning the color of their graduation gowns in the reflection in her dashboard mirror.

"Oh, shut up, Ryan!"

 

 

8-8-8-8-8

 

 

Ryan threads the front piece of Troy's tie through the loop and secures the knot, a Half-Windsor, under the collar of Troy's white dress shirt. He helps Troy smooth his hair out, and runs his hands through his own hair before putting his cap back on. "Are you ready?" He asks.

"I'm ready." Troy smiles and grabs Ryan's hand, escorting him onto the football field.

The ceremony commences sleepily, the sun bearing down on all of their backs. Troy can feel his hair getting damp with sweat beneath his graduation cap.

He makes sure to catch Ryan's eye and wave at the petite blond as Ryan crosses the stage to receive his diploma.

When the time comes to make his speech, Troy steps up to the podium with his heart pounding from pure adrenaline. If glares are boring into the back of his head, it doesn't matter, anymore.

This is it.

Clearing his throat, he begins, "East High is a place where teachers encouraged us to break the status quo, and to define ourselves as we choose. It's a place where a jock can cook up a mean _crème brûlée_ , and a brainiac can break it down on the dance floor. I'd like to take a minute, here, and read a poem from a book that someone very special to me reintroduced to my life. That book is _Where The Sidewalks Ends_ , by Shel Silverstein." Troy meets Ryan's eyes, which shimmer with love and pride, smiles to himself, and continues, "'Listen to the mustn'ts, child, listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts. The impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves. Then listen close to me- Anything can happen, child, _anything_ can be'.

"About a month, or so, ago, you couldn't have convinced me of this if you made a car magically disappear right in front of my eyes. And, no, I'm not talking about stealing it. "

There are a few good-humored laughs at this.

Troy pauses briefly to let the laughter run its course, then resumes, "I was lost, confused, and felt like I was going nowhere. But, then, I learned something that I had forgotten; I learned to believe in myself, again. Sometimes, learning how to believe in yourself in a world that seems determined to tear you down for the slightest little thing feels impossible. Sometimes, it takes some help. And, that help can often come from the places you least expect.

"As Bernard M. Baruch so eloquently put it, 'Be who you are, and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter won't mind'. It's taken me a while, and I still have a ways to go, but I'm beginning to block out the voices that don't matter, thanks to the help that I received from the people in my life who do.

"I believe that _every single one_ of us has the power to rise above the people who want to tear us down, and to find people who will build us up, instead. Our graduation is a step forward. It's the start of something new. You can do whatever, or _be_ whoever you want; a spy, a superhero, a rockstar. Because _anything_ really _is_ possible… as long as you believe in yourself." With a final nod, he accepts his diploma and shakes the hand of a beaming Principal Matsui, then leaps off of the stage.

As one, he and the rest of East High's seniors move the tassels on their caps from the right, to the the left. And, with that, they're free.

People vacate their seats almost immediately.

Sharpay and Zeke are immersed in a conversation involving cookies and the graduation party that will be held at the Evans manor, later that evening.

Staring past the pair, Troy spots Fox Hudson, a member of East High's football team, eyeing Sharpay wistfully. Troy feels a brief pang of pity for Fox, yet another one of Sharpay's many admirers that never stood a chance with the theater queen. Until he remembers that Fox once shoved Ryan into a locker. He swallows that pity, choking it down, and moves right along.

People push past Troy, rushing to find their friends and make plans. Dodging around bodies with varying degrees of success, Troy stops to pull Chad into a headlock and ruffle his hair.

Chad gives Troy a playful grin and shoves him off and on his way.

Finally, Troy arrives at the side of the person he was looking for, just in time to pose for pictures for Lucille Bolton and her camera.

"You boys look very handsome," Lucille gushes. "I'm proud of both of you."

"Thanks, mom," Troy says at the same time that Ryan chimes in, "Thanks, Mrs. Bolton".

Before Troy can react, Sharpay is whisking Ryan off to pose for "pictures for mom and daddy". Ryan just manages to clasp at Troy's hand, taking the brunette with them. Troy shoots his mom and dad an apologetic look over his shoulder.

His parents simply beam back at him, Jack Bolton adjusting the brim of his Berkeley University baseball cap.

Sharpay strikes her usual ostentatious poses at the encouragement of her parents, making wide jazz hands that obscure Ryan from the lens, and leaning against Troy. For the final pictures, however, she draws Troy and Ryan into her for a tight hug, then pushes them forward to let them have the camera's full attention. When Ryan asks her why, she replies, "Troy's part of the family, now, isn't he?"

Mr. and Mrs. Evans smile in agreement.

With that, Ryan pulls Troy in and plants a kiss on his cheek.

The flash on Mr. Evans's camera goes off.

Kelsi and Martha swarm Ryan while Troy's gaze is still swimming with spots. They hug him, squealing and laughing with excitement.

"You guys will keep in touch, right?' Kelsi asks. "Promise?"

"We definitely will," Ryan assures her. "Won't we, Troy?" 

Troy nods and gives Kelsi a smile. "Absolutely. Once a Wildcat, always a Wildcat, right?" He points at the tiny brunette composer. "You be sure to call us and check in, every now and then."

Kelsi beams, her eyes glowing. "I will. Maybe one day, I'll end up writing a show for one of you to star in."

"I'm sure you will," Ryan says, giving her a light nudge.

"Hey, um, Kelsi."

Simultaneously, Troy, Ryan, and Kelsi turn to locate the source of the call. It's Kyle, the boy who stole Kelsi for one dance at the prom. Troy notes the blush on Kelsi's cheeks and arcs an eyebrow at her, smirking.

"I've gotta go," Kelsi says quickly. She shoots Troy a playfully chastising look, then makes her way over to Kyle.

Once Martha and Mr. and Ms. Evans have wandered off, leaving them alone, Troy sidles in close to Ryan. He drapes an arm across the smaller boy's backside and whispers into his ear, "Let's go live in a treehouse."

Ryan breaks into an unabashed grin.

Troy's mind isn't as hopelessly shrouded in confusion. He doesn't feel like a train that is one sharp turn away from flying off of the rails, or a plane on a set course for a fiery crash. For the first time in forever, it feels like he's headed in the right direction. And, whatever destination that direction leads him to, he knows that Ryan is going to be right there.

As long as he has Ryan beside him, Troy doesn't need a parachute.

And, he knows that Ryan feels the exact same way about him.

 

 

 

 

\----

 

**I want to extend my sincerest thanks to everyone who has supported this story in some way. I couldn't have done it without you. I would also like to take a moment to thank the cast and crew of the _High School Musical_ movies. Without the first movie to get me hooked on this series, this story wouldn't exist. **

**Here's to ten years of _High School Musical_ , Tryan, Tryan fanfiction, and the wonderful people who write and read Tryan fanfiction. Let's have a billion more.**

 

 

 

 


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